The Dragon of the South
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: A cynical veteran of the Great War, "well preserved" by the princes of Oblivion, is now sent to the one place he loathes the most: Skyrim. Here Servius Crixus comes face to face with his own personal demons, faces darkness beyond imagination and learns who he is. Rated M for violence, (much) language and other things. Part Three of "The Dragon" series of my Elder Scrolls fanon
1. An Audience with the Emperor

**(AN: Welcome again to the next chapter of my _Elder Scrolls_ fanon: the _Dragon of the South_. This is part of the main story, or at least that part belonging to Servius Crixus. Yes, the anti-hero of _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_ is now our main character here. No i won't go for misunderstood villain, because that trope has been done to death. All i can say, regarding what we have seen in the stories thus far, is that Crixus is like Quorthon of _Bathory_: notorious for giving false information to gauge the reaction of those around him. Anything else about him will be learned in this story. It is rated M obviously for language [no duh] as well as violence, suggestive themes and...well, you know. Themes and character development also being considered as well.)**

**(Initially, there was supposed to be a cut-away chapter at the beginning in the Bee and Barb, but that was lost when my laptop died, and as there was no back-up, i decided to just tell the story straight from the beginning. Enjoy)**

* * *

**An Audience with the Emperor**

He slowly opened his eyes, finding himself in a dimly lit room of stone bricks. He never remembered Colovian brandy having such a kick before, and if anyone could accurately describe its affects on humans, it would be Servius Crixus. Ever since the Battle of Red Dog Pass, he wanted to bury all that had happened in as much wine and brandy as he could afford. That, of course, led him to the Newland Hall in Cheydinhal. It was away from his post, but Pectis, his secretary, could manage the post for a few days if he needed to get away. Of course, the Newland Hall - renamed from the Newland's Lodge, which, along with the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn, had been burned during the Great War - was a little slice of Morrowind, being owned, operated and frequented by numerous Dunmer.

But whether the Dunmer inn-keeper had poisoned his brandy was far from Crixus' mind, as he saw before him the dark red cloaks of none other than the Penitus Oculatus, the personal guards of the Emperor himself. His heart shook within him, as he had heard - as anyone in Cyrodiil - the stories of the fabled Hero of Daggerfall meeting Emperor Uriel Septim VII secretly at night. While those were better times, he felt no less moved by the magnanimity of what the presence of the Pentius Oculatus must surely mean.

Looking about, Crixus saw that he was sitting in a chair at a table with his hands bound at the back. Everything had been stripped from him save for his clothes, and the Penitus Oculatus guards were walking about, keeping Crixus under their watchful gaze. Before him, across the table, was a man wearing a black cloak with the hood thrown down over his face. A narrow, white beard jutted out from the folds of the hood, but there was no other indication of who this person was, only that it had to be either a man or a Khajiit.

"Why am I here?" Crixus asked in a typical Colovian drawl. "Who are you?"

The figure lifted up old, gnarled hands and pushed back the hood. Crixus gasped before the visage of the Emperor, Titus Mede II. He was bald and wore a narrow beard and mustache upon his face. He did not wear many jewels or even a circlet about his head, but the grim expression on his face and the depth of his blue eyes told Crixus that this man was none to be trifled with.

"I wanted to meet the fabled hero of the Battle of Red Dog Pass," the Emperor said.

"Not much to see, is there?" Crixus asked.

"Insolent dog!" one of the guards shouted, raising a fist down and striking Crixus on the back of his head.

"That's enough, soldier!" the Emperor reprimanded, then turned back to Crixus. "I do not wish this to be a disagreeable meeting. I trust you will forgive my...unorthodox attempt to elicit conversation. Ever since that battle, you have been a high priority target for many important and powerful parties."

"Is that why I was put in a dead-end post in the shite-hole of Morrowind?" Crixus asked. "Some hero's thanks."

"You must understand," the Emperor continued. "Your company had been cut off from communication with the Imperial City, you did not know of the White-Gold Concordant and we did not know that your company was still alive and fighting."

"Aye, forgotten," Crixus nodded.

"Your Emperor has not forgotten you," Titus replied. "And he requires your service."

"I'm done with serving the Empire," Crixus groaned. "It's been almost twenty-three years since Red Dog Pass, and all of that time I've been busy enjoying the compensation I received for the loss of too many good men: a post in Morrowind that might as well be a prison sentence. I didn't ask to be dragged here, wherever I'm at, and I didn't ask to be cut off from all knowledge of what was going on beyond the Wrothgarian Mountains."

"But now you will be asked to do your duty for the Empire," Titus replied, seeming to ignore what Crixus had said. "You may accept or refuse at your leisure, but I feel that I should remind you that if you refuse, your life will go on as it has for the past twenty-three years. You will return to 'that shit-hole' Morrowind and continue with your given post, having forgotten that this meeting ever took place. Now, do I have your attention?"

Crixus nodded wordlessly.

"Then let me speak of what you must do," Titus began. "As I'm sure you've heard, on the ninth day of Morning Star, Torygg the High King of Skyrim was murdered by the Jarl of Windhelm."

"Damn drunken Nords," Crixus sneered. "You brought me out here to punish a dumb brute for killing his dumb brute king?"

"This dumb brute, as you called him," Titus retorted. "Is none other than Ulfric Stormcloak."

Crixus became suddenly aware. The name of Ulfric Stormcloak was burned into his mind, and it was not merely for being one of the few to escape capture from the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion. It was for his other deeds which gave Crixus pause.

"The Bear of Markarth," he mused.

"He has a large following in Skyrim," Titus continued. "Within a few short weeks of his murder of the High King, a following of rebels rose up from out of the populace of Skyrim, supporting Ulfric Stormcloak's desire to usurp the Throne of Skyrim into his hands."

"Rebels deserve to die a traitor's death," Crixus stated.

"The situation is more difficult than just that," the Emperor continued. "Many of the people of Skyrim, while not openly sided with Ulfric Stormcloak and the rebels, have offered him aid in secret."

"So you want me to kill this rebel leader, then?" Crixus asked. "That sounds simple enough."

"But it's not that simple, my friend," Titus stated. "Aside from merely taking the Throne of Skyrim for his own, Ulfric Stormcloak has publicly proclaimed that, if made High King of Skyrim, he will dissolve the White-Gold Concordant and permit free worship of Talos."

Crixus spat upon the ground, the very name of Talos fermenting in his ears and vile to his mouth even to whisper a curse at him.

"The Thalmor ambassador has...requested that, under the terms of the White-Gold Concordant," the Emperor continued. "She has the legal right to field agents in Skyrim to subdue the rebels and uphold the terms." He exchanged looks with his guards, then leaned in towards Crixus.

"While most of the people of Cyrodiil might not think so," he whispered. "There are some who are aware of the Thalmor's motives. The Empire has not fully recovered from the War, even after almost twenty-six years. While the Thalmor have not been openly involved in Tamriel prior to the Markarth Incident, I'm sure that they have been secretly working from behind the scenes to keep the Empire from attaining a place of power."

"I don't honestly believe they have that kind of power," Crixus stated.

"Open your eyes!" the Emperor insisted. "Surely you have noticed how things in Cyrodiil have been, even as far away as Morrowind. Trouble on the roads with resupplying the Empire with weapons, the stone quarries at Bruma shutting down, and now this rebellion in Skyrim!"

"I've heard about bandits on the roads of Cyrodiil," Crixus stated. "And there were rumors about a group of militant Nords called the 'Sons of Skyrim' who have been causing trouble in Bruma, but I don't see how those are related, and if related in any way, hardly to the Dominion."

"You remember how the war began," Titus sighed. "How the Thalmor ambassador dumped at my feet the heads of all the Blades. They won't wait until they've declared war on us again to weaken our infrastructure, they will do so in the meanwhile, making us so much more an easy conquest. This is why I need you."

"Me?" Crixus asked. He was now genuinely surprised, for while he had assumed that he understood the Emperor's suggestion from the beginning, this revelation was more than he could believe.

"Listen to me, Crixus," Titus continued. "I am entrusting you with a mission of the utmost secrecy. You are to go to Skyrim and present yourself to Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador and heiress to Lord Naarifin."

"Wait a moment," Crixus interjected. "First you tell me of your fears that the Thalmor are secretly undermining the restoration of the Empire, and now you ask me to work for them?"

"Only on the surface," the Emperor repleid. "Your true purpose is to uncover their activities, both in Skyrim and other parts of Tamriel. They might smile in the streets at us as we pass them by, but their 'First War with the Empire' is reason enough to fear what might come from Alinor. I want you to find what they are doing and put an end to it."

Crixus paused, thinking back on what had happened those ninety days in the freezing cold Wrothgarian Mountains. While his troop had been trapped there for three years, without sufficient supplies to make the journey back to Hammerfell, High Rock or Skyrim - what with the mountain-passes opening and closing by avalanche without warning and constant sabotage from the Dominion - the last ninety days of fighting had made him a hard man. Seeing his men die off one by one, by exposure, wild animals and Dominion weapons and magicka, drove him not only to hate war but to hate the Altmer.

"I presume I'll be going to Skyrim alone, then?" Crixus asked.

* * *

**(AN: If any of you have come fresh from reading _The Dragon and the Bear_ or _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, you will notice that the story is not beginning where _The Dragon and the Bear_ left off. I'm considering doing this story in two parts so as to not get bogged down with another one hundred plus meandering [especially meandering] story...again! Which ever way i choose it, the second half, which will be set exclusively in Cyrodiil, will pick up where _The Dragon and the Bear_ left off.)**

**(Some stuff here about Crixus' past, especially the infamous "Red Dog Pass", or Llywyn Pass in the Breton language. The details of that infamous battle and how it affected Crixus have been sprinkled in pieces throughout the past two stories, but now they will be told in full. Also, like with _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, I will try to paint a more comprehensive picture of what happens in the story.)**


	2. Trollfell

**(AN: It is my personal belief that the Skyrim we see in the games would hypothetically be much bigger were it a real country. Because of that, I feel that there would be a few more places than the ones seen on your usual maps. But who am I to throw more things in since we don't really spend that much time spelunking in these stories.)**

**(Oh well, new chapter)**

* * *

**Trollfell**

It was the tenth day of First Seed, a Turdas morning, as Servius Crixus now stood upon a path which led through the high, snow-clad Jerall Mountains. By night-fall, he would be within the borders of Skyrim. Nine days had passed since his audience with the Emperor, and he was now well on his way to the one place in all of Tamriel he hated the most.

It was a different man that stood upon the path, looking out at the snow-capped mountains. Whereas the man who had been brought before the Emperor was a broken man gone to waste, long black hair and scraggly black beard going gray with age, the man who now looked out was a soldier once again. His hair and beard had been shaved off, though both were coming back in short, spiky amounts. He was clad in the woolen clothes of a ranger on a journey into the cold, with a bow upon his back. Upon his belt were two knives, with which he was skilled at killing swiftly and lethally.

He turned back from the road before him, seeing behind him on the road from whence he had come the distant figure of Baucus. This young man, given to him as a page on his journey, would hardly have passed for a decent soldier back in the war. Though born and raised in the Colovian heart-land, he was tall, almost lanky, and thin-bodied. Though the leather Imperial armor he wore suited him just fine, and his short-cut black hair was certainly Cyrodilic enough, Crixus feared that this youth was getting himself into far more than he knew.

"Pick up your feet, Baucus!" Crixus shouted.

"Yes, Legate!" Baucus called back in reply.

"Don't call me legate," Crixus said, though not loud enough for the swiftly-approaching Baucus to discern it. "I haven't been a legate for twenty-three years."

"I'm sorry, sir," Baucus apologized, winded as he scaled the hill. "It's just, well, I haven't trained for swift travel in these mountains."

"An Imperial soldier should be ready for anything," Crixus replied. "Especially in a shite-hole country like Skyrim."

"Skyrim can't be that bad," Baucus stated optimistically. "Cold and unforgiving, yes, but then again, so is High Rock. There must be some redeeming qualities to Skyrim."

"If I wanted your opinion, boy, I'd ask for it," Crixus retorted grimly. "Now bring out the map."

Baucus removed from the sack around his shoulders a map of Skyrim written upon old parchment, which he then unfurled and held open at Crixus' side. It showed the whole land of the Northernmost province in the Empire of Tamriel: longer than it was tall, with all nine holds indicated with a small shield with an icon upon it. A ram's head for the Reach, a dear's head for Falkreath, a horse's head for Whiterun, a wolf's head for Haafingar, a cross with swirled ends for Hjaalmarch, a four-pointed star for the Pale, two crossed daggers for the Rift, a crown with three points for Winterhold and a bear for Eastmarch. The older of the two Colovian men began scanning it with his finger, starting at the bottom of the map near a line of mountains.

"This is the road we're on," he said, pointing to a line running down into the lower portion of the map marked 'Cyrodiil.' "We're only a few miles north of this town here..." He pointed to a town nestled on the edge of a large mountain in the southern region of Skyrim. "Helgen, I believe the name is called."

"Simple enough, eh?" Baucus asked.

"But I don't want to go to Helgen," Crixus stated. "Where's the nearest town besides that one?"

"Well, there's a hold just several miles north-west," Baucus stated, pointing to a shield on the map with the emblem of a deer's head with knotting antlers. "It's called Falkreath, but that would put us far out of our way. The swiftest path would be straight from here to Solitude, by way of Helgen, Riverwood, Whiterun and Morthal."

"But that also means traipsing through every Nord-infested shanty-town in this forsaken land," Crixus grumbled. "No, I say we go north-west, to this Falkreath place. From there we can simply go north and be in Solitude in less than a week."

"If that is what you want," Baucus replied.

"It _is_ what I want," Crixus stated, taking the map from Baucus as he began to examine it further. "There doesn't seem to be much as far as these mountains go. A few hunters lodges, a keep to the east, a spell-sword's den, but these mountains seem more or less deserted."

"Not exactly," Baucus added, pointing to a small valley nestled between two sides of the Jerall Mountain range. "This here, this place called Trollfell, it doesn't seem like an inviting place, and it lies just upon the path to Falkreath from here."

"Afraid of a few trolls?" Crixus asked with a smirk.

"I'm afraid of their arms, is what!" Baucus stated, showing forth just how green he was compared to Crixus. "Many stories in Skyrim have spoken of the fates of unwary travelers before the unbridled beasts. Even in Cyrodiil we know better than to cross a troll's lair."

* * *

They stowed away their map and continued on for a good while in relative silence. At last, however, they passed over the tall, snow-clad mountain rise and saw before them the hidden valley known as the Trollfells to the people of Skyrim. What awaited them was a frozen lake, longer from west to east than it was wide. The ice had long since been covered over by snow, making it appear to be nothing more than a wide expanse of deep snow. So deep was the snow that Baucus assumed that they could be able to walk across the frozen lake without ever touching the slippery ice.

"I wouldn't count on it," Crixus added. "I've encountered frozen lakes during the Wrothgarian campaign. Lost quite a few good men to these deceptive waters." He looked out at the center of the lake, sheltering his eyes from the sun, which was rising up from out of a reek of clouds passing on to the west.

"Do you see anything?" Crixus asked. "Over there, towards the center of the lake."

The younger page leaned out, gazing as directed, then gasped. "It looks like a mammoth, fallen in a thin patch of ice in the center of the lake. Must have been trapped there and frozen to death. Best to avoid that area."

Slowly the two of them made their way down the side of the hill towards the snow-covered frozen surface of the lake. There was no other sound in the valley, only the gently howling wind and the roaring crunch of frozen soil, snow and rock beneath their boots.

"What's the matter, Baucus?" Crixus asked. "Scared of a dead mammoth?"

"Not exactly, sir," Baucus replied. "I only fear what accompanies the mammoths of Skyrim. I hear there is an old saying that goes: 'where the mammoth walks, the giant stalks.' And giants are no laughing matter."

At this, Crixus let out a mocking laugh at the boy's naivete. "Oh, I forget how green you are, Baucus, my boy! I've seen giants in the Wrothgarian Mountains. In the end, they only have size over any of us. And like us, if you stab them in the heart, you can fell them just the same. Remember your training and don't let fear master you!" They walked on down the hill, reaching at last the bottom where Crixus saw that Baucus still hung his head in shame.

"Oh, man the fuck up, boy! You're a fair fighter, your training in the Legion has given you the skills and strength to become a man capable of killing giants, men, mer, yea, even daedra, I'll warrant! My words aren't meant to insult, but that you harness your fears, eh?"

"Thank you, sir," Baucus replied. "If you don't mind me saying, well, with those words, you should be commanding a Legion of your own!"

"Arse-kissing will get you nowhere, Baucus," Crixus chided playfully.

"You've been decorated by the Emperor for your deeds in the Great War," Baucus continued. "Yet you've settled for a prefecture in one of the last Imperial garrisons in what's left of Morrowind. What brought you out here? Is it to quell the rebels?"

"You've been paying too much heed to the idle gossip of barkeeps and drunken watchmen."

"But is it true?" Baucus asked. "Are we really sent to quell the rebellion? You never denied that that is our commission."

"Look, the less you know the better," Crixus retorted cryptically. "General Tullius will give us our orders once we reach Solitude. That should be enough for us now."

"Look, sir!" Baucus suddenly cried out. He walked over to the edge of the snow-covered lake and pointed out deep tracks in the snow. The tracks were made by large, three toed creatures walking on all fours. Both of them could read the signs in the snow. Crixus had experience and Baucus had his training.

"Trolls, sir," Baucus said, fear taking his voice. "It's a troll."

"Not just any troll," Crixus added, walking over to the prints. "Look, you can see where the snow is thicker here..." He pointed to part of the print. "...than over here. The weight is not evenly distributed. Except for these ones, where the beast was walking on its knuckles. Also, these prints are rather even, like one familiar with walking in deep drifts of snow. Ice troll by the look of these prints. Maybe a clutch of them in this valley, their caves buried in the snow drifts."

"Do you think we'll meet any?" Baucus asked.

"Not likely," Crixus said, studying the footprints as they passed on down the lake. "See? The trolls went towards our fallen mammoth, but there are prints going back away from it. Something must have scared them off."

Crixus drew out his bow, a Colovian re-curve, such as used by the archers in the Imperial Legion, then took up two arrows. One he placed between his teeth while the other he fitted between the arrow. Baucus, meanwhile, covered his mouth with his fox-fur muffler, not wanting his superior to notice that he was breathing heavily and nervously.

"Shouldn't we be looking for high ground?" Baucus asked.

"Our path lies over this frozen river," Crixus replied through the arrow clenched between his teeth. "Whatever comes after us, we can face it."

Suddenly there was a howl and something appeared suddenly from out of the snow. Both Baucus and Crixus looked thither, seeing a large, three-eyed thing with matted yellow-white fur clawing its way out of the snow towards them. Then two more appeared from out of the two as three others on the other side of the lake now appeared, hobbling clumsily through the snow towards them.

Crixus chuckled through the arrow. "I'll bet you wish it was a giant now, eh boy?" With keen eyes he pinned a spot on the gnarled and spiked collar of the troll, then let loose his arrow, which hit the mark. The beast staggered, spilling dark blood upon the white snow. The blow had struck true and the beast was bleeding out heavily, but there was something both Crixus and Baucus had failed to remember concerning trolls: they could regenerate from wounds.

"It's getting back up!" Baucus shouted.

"Just a moment here," Crixus groaned, as he drew the second arrow from between his teeth and fitted it into the bow. This time he aimed even smaller, looking at wrinkle between the triad of eyes upon the troll's head. He exhaled, then let loose, blinding an eye with the shot. He took out another arrow, then turned to Baucus.

"Time to put your training to the test, boy!" he said triumphantly.

He let loose the arrow, striking the second of the troll's three eyes. Then he drew out a long knife and a gladius, a short-sword frequently used by the Imperial Legion, and leaped upon the back of the blind troll. Baucus bore a spear, which he heaved at one of the oncoming trolls like a javelin, catching it in the leg and sending it tumbling down onto the ice, which creaked beneath his fall. The youth drew out a shield and a gladius and made for Crixus, who had driven his dagger across the troll's neck, sending it collapsing to the ground in a pool of its own blood. Meanwhile, the one who had been stricken down by the spear had broken the shaft and was back on its feet.

"These things just don't quit, sir!" Baucus shouted.

"Then neither do we, lad!" Crixus laughed.

"I heard you slew a cliff-racer in your days as a prefect in Morrowind," Baucus said, eagerly hoping for some kind of assurance of their victory or, in the very least, their survival.

"That's a myth, boy," Crixus chuckled. "Cliff-racers don't exist anymore."

"What about the war?" Baucus asked. "I heard you once hit three Aldmeri officers in the head with just one arrow in the Siege of Bravil."

"Now _that_ one was true," Crixus added.

"So, do you have a clever way of getting out of this?" Baucus asked.

"Yeah, run."

* * *

They did not know if the trolls stopped pursuing them, nor did they care. What was on their minds was getting as far away from the Trollfell as they could. They also knew not the direction they were going, for they passed east instead of north, going farther along the Jerall Mountains and never passing into Skyrim proper. It was not until at least thirty minutes had passed that they stopped to take wind and got their bearings. The sun was covered in clouds and they could see precious little of its path, but Crixus took out the map and began cross-examining it with the landscape around them.

"By the looks of things," he panted. "We've come...all the wrong way."

"How so?" Baucus asked.

"Do you see that tall mountain over there?" he pointed to the left. There loomed a tall mountain, taller than all the rest, whose steep sides rose up above the mountain peaks from which it jutted, stretching up until its hoary head was lost in the clouds.

"Now if I read this map aright," Crixus continued. "That should be the Throat of the World, the highest mountain in this skeever-den of a country. We're too far east near..." He held up the map. "...Riften."

"Don't you mean Rifton?" Baucus asked.

"I don't give a fuck what they call it," Crixus groaned. "According to this map, it's controlled by the rebels. The moment we leave the mountains, we'll be gutted and raped like a Nord's favorite goat." Baucus quivered.

"Surely they can't all be like that," he said. "I mean, we passed through Bruma on the way here, some of the Nords there were fine. They didn't drink, they didn't start fights, they didn't even talk about the 'fatherland' or Talos."

"But we're not in Cyrodiil, are we?" Crixus asked. "It's time to get our gear on."

"Gear?" Baucus asked, confused.

"I took the liberty of bringing along some commoner clothes in our sizes," he said. "Nothing too conspicuous, just to blend in with the surroundings." He took off from beneath his woolen Imperial cloak a small sack which clanked as it touched the ground.

"We're going to change up here in the cold?" Baucus queried, shivering quietly.

"No," Crixus replied. "We're going to wait until we're down from the mountains and have already been butt-fucked by twenty Nord men before we change. Of _course_ we will!"

In the end, the clothes they put on were more of an addition to what they already had than actual removing of garments. A few leather jerkins to cover their light armor and swaths of sheep's wool for their wrist-guards, which were emblazoned with the red diamond, the emblem of the Empire of Cyrodiil. For the bald Crixus, a hide helmet with his hood placed over it went on his head and both of their helmets went into the sack.

"There we are," Crixus said. "Just two sell-swords on a mission for some arse-hole in some hold."

"Aye," Baucus chuckled. "Or maybe a nephew and his uncle making their way home before dinner. Oh, gods above, I hope this works."

"And if not?" Crixus asked. "You should always take that into consideration, especially if you call on the Eight."

"You don't believe in the Eight?" Baucus asked with incredulity as Crixus made his way straight, to where the snow-clad hill inclined.

"Why should I?" Crixus asked. "Whenever something bad happens, where are they? And then when something good happens, it's not because of the power or skill of humans or what have you, it's because of the gods. The Eight didn't stop the Great War, or prevent the loss of good Colovian men. And after all that, they still have the gall to expect us to bow down before them like we owe them anything!"

"I'm sorry I said anything," Baucus replied, bowing his head. "I've heard strange things happen to men when they go to war."

"I don't want to talk about the war, solider," Crixus said, referring to Baucus by rank rather than his name. "Now let's get going."

* * *

They walked on for about an hour or more, until the snows around them slowly began to fade and they saw, to their dismay, that they had indeed come upon the Rift. Despite whatever name its capital had been called, the Rift was known throughout Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel, as a place of trade and commerce and intrigue, with many a theft taking place beneath the golden aspens of the Rift.

As they were walking, Baucus turned to Crixus and began to ask him a question, but his words fell upon his lips as Crixus lowered his head and shushed him with one finger pressed to his lips.

"Trouble's ahead," he hissed. "Just keep walking and don't look up."

The youth did so as they passed under the boughs of the aspen, but then he heard voices laughing and for a moment he dared to cast his eyes upward. There he saw standing all around them the shapes of men, tall men, taller even than Crixus - and he was tall even by Colovian standards - armed with torches, shields, swords and axes, casually striding towards them. For a moment he thought they were merely guards of the hold, the keepers of the peace. They were now close enough that, even though his eyes were averted, Baucus could see them. Most of them were men and the one woman was even taller than Baucus. They seemed to both the young man and to Crixus as big and, to Crixus alone, as ugly as the trolls. Some of them wore padded leather jerkins over scale male shirts with a few pauldrons and gauntlets of steel upon ankles and wrists. Some wore helmets of steel or had blue scarfs wrapped about their faces to keep out the cold. For a moment they saw, sewn into their sashes, the symbol of a bear.

They had walked straight into the midst of a company of rebels.

* * *

**(AN: Kind of an introductory chapter to Crixus and his squire, not much happens except for exposition of things that we learned about Crixus in the other stories. If you haven't read those stories, there is no need to go back and read them. You can start here and learn all you need to know about Crixus before getting into _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. The real adventures will begin in the next chapter)**


	3. The Unlikeliest of Places

**(AN: Lucky for you, i had written most of the first few chapters ahead of time, so there will be frequent updates for a while...for all zero of the readers and reviewers.)**

**(-sigh- This story will be different than _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_, but similar to the other _Skyrim_-based fan-fics on this site, so you should be bound to love it. What i mean is that, unlike those two which featured a Nord hero among his people who, pretty much stated in _The Dragon and the Bear_, wanted to see the good in his people, this one features an Imperial who sees Nords as EVERYONE seems to believe they all are: which is to say dumb, brutish, ignorant racist mongrels. Enjoy, i know you'll love this...i sure won't)**

**(Warning, Crixus goes Rambo on some Stormcloaks [i know, your life-long fantasy], but it's kind of explicit)**

* * *

**The Unlikeliest of Places**

Their leader, the tallest of them, wearing a bear-skin upon his head, walked towards Crixus, placing between them a battle-axe half his own height, on which he rested his large, bear-like hands. He had a long golden beard, braided into two forks, and one of his steel blue eyes was pale, a large scar running across it showing that it had been blinded out some time ago. He spoke with the thick Nordic accent and when he opened his mouth, the few teeth that he had were crooked and yellow and his breath smelt of beer.

"Hail, travelers," he greeted in a deep voice that sounded like a bear speaking. "Where are you off to in these woods?"

"We're blacksmiths," Crixus said. "He's my apprentice. We're going to Riften."

"That right, is it?" the tall man asked, spitting on the ground to his right. "Well, if word around these parts is right and proper, there's already a blacksmith in Riften. Perhaps you've heard of him, eh?"

"A scrawny little fellow with one eye," one of the masked Stormcloak rebels added. "One of them damn dirty Dunmer, by Ysmir!"

"I do not know," Crixus added. "We've never been here before."

The large man laughed. "Haven't been to Riften before? You must not get around much, blacksmith. Still, don't quite recognize that accent o' yorn. Where do you hail?"

Crixus noticed Baucus' hand was reaching for the knife in its sheath on his belt. The woman reached up with a sword and placed it to Baucus' wrist.

"Please, good sir," Baucus suddenly spoke up, fear of the large Nordic woman taking him. "We only mean to put some distance between us and the night. Please let us pass!"

"Oh, 'Please let us pass', says the milk-drinker!" the large Nord said, cracking a snaggle-toothed grin as he laughed a huge, throaty laugh. The others laughed in return.

"Forgive my apprentice's rashness," Crixus spoke up, pretending to sound worried. "He's tired and we've lost our pack horse in the hills."

"A true Nord wouldn't go walking in the hills," the Nord woman added. "Without no escort if he can't defend hisself."

"Aye," the large one added, turning to Crixus. "So tell me, blacksmith, how did one keen in ironmongery manage to lose his pack horse in the hills?"

"Saber-cat," Crixus said. "Ferocious things. We barely escaped with our lives."

"Mhm," the large Nord said with disbelief. He then held up his right arm, which was bare save for a generous amount of hair and long, white scars across it. "Do you see them scars, blacksmith? Got 'em wrestlin' a saber-cat. I keep his head on me mantle-piece."

"Please, sir, we're in a rush," Crixus added.

"Not so fast, little man," the bear-headed one said. "First, answer me a question. See, we don't let just anybody walk in this here hold. This here's Skyrim and it belongs to the Nords and our friends. So tell me, who do you serve?"

"The...true High King of Skyrim," Crixus replied.

All those around them burst into laughter. Baucus eyed them nervously while Crixus kept his eyes on the large Nord.

"Yeah, right," the masked one said. "That's what you think we want to hear, ain't it?"

The large man shouted and his companions were silenced. He turned back to Crixus. "And who would that be?"

"The bear," Crixus answered swiftly, before Baucus could speak. "Ulfric Stormcloak."

"Now that's a right fine answer, friend," the large man said, his tone becoming less imposing and more cordial. He slapped Crixus' shoulder so hard, the strong, war-hardened Colovian buckled beneath the weight.

"Come with us, now," he said with a laugh. "We'll take you to our camp and share some strong mead with you, chase away the winter-cold."

* * *

The Stormcloaks led Baucus and Crixus down from the edge of the mountains and into the forest. They joked and laughed and drank and sang songs about the end of the Age of Oppression, acting as good friends. Crixus and Baucus, meanwhile, held their peace among the group, seeming like children among giants who had the taste for human flesh, especially the tender meat of children. At last they came, not to a camp, but to a cottage in the woods, with a small fire-pit lying out front of it. Here they gathered round, with the large Nord heaving his axe upon his shoulders while he turned to Crixus.

"You know, friend," he began. "You didn't never tell me 'bout that accent o'yorn. Reminds me o'th' one I heard off some milk-drinking Imperial merchant. Came down into our woods a few days ago, with his wife and two daughters no less!"

"Aye, fair they were!" the masked one added. "The youngest had a set of anchors on her chest that would've sunk a ship!"

"And the eldest had the finest ass I've ever seen!" another Stormcloak added.

"Not countin' them sheep, you mean!" the masked one added with a laugh.

"Aye, fair they were," the large one said, giving a laugh before he turned to Crixus. "Said the same thing you did: one true king's Ulfric an' all. I reckon I believed him just the same as you, perhaps a bit more."

The door to the cottage opened and five more turned their seven into twelve. Crixus kept his eyes on the large one, for it was that axe he would have to evade if it came down to blows.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Well, like I said before," the large one replied with a smile and a wink. "This here Skyrim belongs to us Nords. So I told him to get out double quick back to his milk-drinking friends in Cyrodiil. He refused, so I took off his head, hung it 'round the saber-cat head on me mantle."

"And I'm sure he deserved it," Crixus stated, trying to act like it wasn't an issue.

"Of course he did," laughed the large man. "He ain't a Nord, so he don't belong here."

"And what of the man's wife and daughters?" Crixus asked, though he wished that he hadn't bothered the moment the words left his mouth.

"She screamed," the large one said. "At first, until we took out her tongue with a pair o' callipers."

"More room for his cock!" the masked Stormcloak said.

"Eh, she was a biter, that one," the large man sighed. "She didn't get me long-sword. Though Edla there..." He pointed to the large Nord woman. "She fancied pilfering her wizard's purse, if you know what I mean. You should've seen it! One hand up her dress, legs pinning her down and her other hand holding her head up to watch while Fenric and I rode her two daughters."

"Sweetest little fuck I've had in weeks, I'll tell you that," said Fenric, the masked one.

"Monsters!" Baucus shouted. Suddenly Edla punched Baucus in the face, sending him crumbling down to the ground. Crixus, meanwhile, drew out his gladius while the Stormcloaks around him took their arms in hand.

"That was not necessary!" he shouted.

"Just who the fuck are you, little man?" the large Nord said to Crixus. "Imperial spies? Assassins? Elf-lovers? Speak, friend, or my axe will get friendlier!"

"We don't got no need for your kind in Skyrim!" Fenric shouted.

"Quite the soldiers, you lot," Crixus sneered. "Proud to uphold the Nordic way of life: kill and rape whatever ain't Nord, isn't that right?"

"That's the truth of it!" jeered the large Nord. "We ain't the kind o' soldiers like you milk-drinkers down south. We're the true sons of Skyrim!"

Crixus knew that his sword would do very little against the large Nord if he wasn't close enough. But what by one way and what by another, he would end up being hit by one of the others around him. Nevertheless, he would not merely give up without a fight, not to these drunken, dissolute Nords. He threw his sword into Fenric, sending him crumbling down, then ducked as the large one's axe swung overhead, but did not recover in time before another Nord tackled him down to the ground. Crixus was quick and agile, but the Nord had raw strength on his side. He jabbed, kicked, knee-bashed and head-butted the Nord as best he could, but the woman Edla seized his legs and they both lifted him up off the ground.

"Tie 'em to the trees!" the large one shouted.

"Coward!" Crixus shouted as he was being propped up against the tree, ropes lashed about him. He knew that Nords valued honor and battle-prowess over everything and, if he attacked them at their weakest point, they might do something rash, something he might be able to exploit. "You cheap, straw-headed, raping, murdering cunt! What, one Colovian milk-drinker too much for you, so you get your b*tches to take me down from behind? Just like the merchant's daughters: never face a worthy opponent, always one who can't fight back!"

"We don't need no fancy words, milk-drinker!" Edla said, tightening the rope around his chest extra tight.

"Let me speak to this smart-ass," the large one said, kneeling down so that he was now face to face with Crixus. "It ain't something your type could understand, livin' in them civilized white-gold towers. This here is our home and we here are warriors, bred from birth to fight and die well. We'll do whatever we need to do to get your type out of our home: all you elf-lovers and milk-drinkers and dark elves and light elves and wood elves and scale-backs and cat-men!" With a snarl he punched Crixus across the face, then chuckled.

"I'll be back for you, that there's a promise!" he said menacingly as he and the others walked back to the cottage, singing and jeering.

* * *

Day wound on to night as Crixus was hung on the tree, stripped of gear and weapons. Where Baucus was taken, he did not know and he could not hear his voice if he called out to him: all he got was Edla coming out to beat him around a bit. He threw curses at them once they left and if it provoked them to anger, he railed and cursed them again. He would not let them know that they had beaten him. He had suffered worse torment by the Thalmor during the campaign at the Blooded Vale in the Wrothgarian Mountains, the infamous campaign of the Red Dog Pass. In the dark, under the brilliant colors of the Northern lights, he thought he heard the voices of his comrades fighting against the endless sea of Dominion soldiers. Gorak had charged into the fray, Shaddar had fallen at his side, wounded. Gentonius had been fried by one of their mages. He was running towards a smug-faced Thalmor justicar, tugging on his gladius, but it refused to come out of his sheath, stuck to the inside by the frost. All around his men were dying, his men. There was no word from Cyrodiil, they were cut off here. He was responsible for his cohort and he was letting them down.

At last he snapped back into reality. He was not in the Red Dog Pass, he was in the Rift, under the golden boughs of the aspen and the shimmering colors and cascading hues of the Northern lights sailing through the starry canvas of night. But it was the same situation. Baucus was his charge, he was responsible for him and he was letting him down. Not this time! Noiselessly he shifted his bound arms against the bark of the tree. It was soft and papery, perhaps he could shift his hands free. Even if it took him all night and every last inch of his strength, he would not rest until he was free and had dispatched his would-be killers. He strained harder, grinding his wrists against a knotted growth of the tree, now warm blood was trickling down onto his fingers. Had he punctured a vital vein and was now bleeding out like the troll? Would he die now with his journey only just begun?

Suddenly he heard a voice. Looking towards the cottage, he saw that all was still in merriment. Suddenly there was a shout and then the sound of growling and flesh tearing. He heard the voice of Baucus crying out for the Nine, yes, the Nine, even Talos' name he called, as he was being torn apart. Crixus shook his head in disbelief: it wouldn't do him a lick of good, not against, as he guessed, wolves. At last the sound of groaning and crying ceased and Crixus sealed tightly his eyes. He had failed his charge: Baucus was now the fodder of wolves. His parents back in Cyrodiil, maybe even a pretty little lover that he might have had - he never bothered to ask him - would never see him again.

"Make no sudden moves if you want to live, got it?" a voice whispered into his right ear. Crixus flinched at the voice, but then he heard the sound of a knife being dragged across the leather bindings on his wrists and body. The voice spoke again, and it was clearly Colovian in accent. "Don't make me regret my one act of selflessness, alright?"

At last the ropes, which had bit him to the bone all through the bitter night, were released and he practically collapsed to the ground. His rescuer appeared at hand, a leaf-green light in his hand. He spoke a word and suddenly the wolves vanished into the night. He then turned to Crixus, and he saw, in the light in his hand, a little of what he was. He wore the tan and brown cloak of a mage over a thicker padded leather vest. His hood was pulled down over his face, obscuring all but a thin black goatee.

"Let's not tarry here a moment longer," the mage whispered to Crixus. "I very much value being alive."

"A moment, please," Crixus said, walking towards the cottage.

He walked over to a stack of wood leaning against the side of the cottage, picking up a wood-cutter's axe and crept over to the door, which was not locked. Inside, most everyone had fallen asleep, empty cups and bottles of mead still in hand. Their leader, the bear-sized Nord with the battle-axe, slumped over in chair near the back exit of the old house. Crixus spun the handle of the axe, gauging the weight of his weapon and its versatility, it came crashing down with renewed speed making two pieces out of his head, showering the walls, his face and all those around him with blood and hunks of brain. The rest began to wake and scream, grabbing for their weapons in a kind of hung-over lethargy. They were not well-trained, he saw: these were no soldiers. But nor was he, not anymore. This was his battlefield and he'd prefer no other place than to be among monsters.

The axe swung sideways, pinning a man to the planks of the wall. The victim shook, a blank wordless expression on his face until his tongue slid out from between his teeth and he died. Some of the others scurried for their weapons that few could remember where they had put them the night before thanks to the copious amounts of mead they had all imbibed. Crixus' foot came down hard on another man's hand that fondled for his blade, then the axe came down into his head, like with so many others, splitting the face wide opened so it looked like the maw of some nightmarish beast.

"Die, damn you!" the voice of Edla shouted.

Crixus barely had time to duck as the large Nord woman threw her sword at him. It soared over his head, splitting the head of another Stormcloak, who let his shield drop to his feet. Crixus picked up the light-weight wooden shield and swung it at Edla. It caught her on the knee, sending her to the ground. He hacked at two more, then noticed that Edla was now crawling towards the door, half-way onto her feet. She passed outside, rising up into a running pace. But Crixus was not ready to let anyone get away, so hot was he in his fury. He threw the woodman's axe at her, pinning her in the back and sending her down to the ground, paralyzed. He ran after her, the light of the open door of the cottage illuminating his path, then dragged the axe out as painfully as he could make it before turning Edla over onto her back. If he believed in any of the Divines, he would have called them to witness that this one would see his face as he took out his vengeance upon them.

"Let's..." he panted as he thrust the axe-blade between Edla's legs over and over. "See...how...you...like..._this_...you...b*tch!"

The hooded sorcerer could not see the specifics of what went on with the man he had just rescued and the escaping Stormcloak, but the cries and screams of the one and the shouts and curses of the other made him wonder if he had indeed done the right thing in rescuing him. At last the voice of the one died down and the blood-soaked form of the other disappeared back inside the house, then reappeared again, clothed and armed with a bow in one hand and a sword in the other. He walked over to something else in the dark, then turned his attention towards his rescuer.

What have you gotten yourself into now, he thought. Then, as the man he rescued appeared next to him, he held one hand behind his back, readying to cast a spell in case he needed it. "Tell me I didn't just free some mad man." There was sarcasm in his voice, but only so much that he knew his danger but did not let it get to him.

"Don't be afraid," Crixus sighed, exhausted and worked up into a sweat after the carnage he had carried out upon the Stormcloaks.

"Oh, no, I won't," the sorcerer said sardonically. "I take it butchering men like cattle is a normal occurrence to you."

"I apologize, good sir," Crixus said. "I'm afraid this shite-hole of a country has drained my civility. Servius Crixus, Imperial Legionnaire." He looked back towards the trees. "That boy was my escort. Some end, huh?"

"I almost thought you were a Nord," the sorcerer added. "The way you tore that Stormcloak apart."

"The b*tch deserved it," Crixus replied. "Nobody assaults and rapes a merchant and his family and gets away with it, especially if they're Colovian."

"Well, then," the sorcerer said. "Since you have such a high opinion of your fellow countrymen, allow me to introduce myself. Scipio Marcurio, apprentice wizard and spell-sword extraordinaire." His hand relaxed as he felt he wouldn't have need of a destruction spell, not yet at least. "The road hasn't been kind to you, I take it."

"Obvious, I know," Crixus said.

"So, how are things in the Colovian heartland?" Marcurio asked.

"Not as they should be," Crixus replied. "But what do I know, I've been in Morrowind for almost twenty years."

"I heard you said you were with the Legion," Marcurio spoke up after a lengthy moment of solemn silence. "If so, why aren't you with the Army? The nearest camp is about ten miles in the opposite direction."

"I doubt they'd have good spirits there," Crixus replied with an equally sardonic answer.

Marcurio chuckled. "If that's all you came here for, might as well head home, if you can make it over the border without being spotted. Although, there is some decent ale in the town I've been staying at. We shouldn't be very far from it. They've got one of the biggest meaderies in Skyrim, if you have the stomach for the local draft, of course."

"Then let's get going," he said. "The night isn't good for traveling, especially here in Skyrim."

"That's certainly true," Marcurio added.

They walked on for a while, guided only by the light held aloft in Marcurio's hands. After some time in the darkness, chilled by the cold winds, Marcurio pulled something out of the satchel on his belt and handed it to Crixus.

"Something from Stormhold," he said. "Strong stuff, though some say it's bottled toxin. Drink it up, should keep the cold off for a while."

"I like you already, Marcurio," Crixus said with a smirk.

"That's good to hear," Marcurio replied sardonically. "I was hoping for that, rather than being torn apart by a crazed soldier."

"So, you're a spell-sword, eh?" Crixus asked.

"I'm hardly some common villain selling his life at every dimly lit tavern along the way," Marcurio replied, sounding offended. But, by now, Crixus was catching on to his sarcastic wit.

"So what are you then," he asked. "An uncommon villain in a well-lit corner-club?"

"Just another person making his way across Tamriel," Marcurio began. "Once had a job up in Kynesgrove. Boring little town, more trees than women. I'm not particularly religious, mind you, but if I had to choose a Divine to worship, it'd be Dibella. And if I had to choose a daedric prince, it would be Sanguine. At least with them life would be a bit more interesting!" He chuckled.

"So you found me interesting?" Crixus asked. "Is that why you rescued me?"

"A man should die on his feet," Marcurio said, suddenly serious. "If that's one thing I and the people of this gods-forsaken country agree on, it's that. Besides..." He suddenly returned to his jesting manner. "Just because I'm an uncommon villain, selling my life out for mead and wenches at every well-lit corner-club, doesn't mean I don't respect life.

They both burst out into laughter that no darkness could dispel and carried on well into the night.

* * *

**(AN: Here we meet our first part-time companion of Crixus': yes, that's right, Marcurio. He had a smaller role in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, but here his role is somewhat expanded.)**

**(Before you say "if you didn't like this chapter, why write it?" Several reasons: one, this is Crixus' story, so it won't be praising the Nordic people. Two, character arc. Three, for you, of course. A lot of people criticized _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ for making only elves and Imperials racist a-holes, so here you go. Stereotypical racist Nords, the same as EVERYONE on this site writes! Whoop-dee-doo!)**


	4. A City of Thieves

**(AN: If any of you [well, nobody right now] have read the other stories, you'll know that Crixus, like EVERYBODY'S ideal Dragonborn, has ties to Skyrim's underworld. Here we see some of those ties being formed, as well as the formal introduction of Brynjolf, who made a cameo in _The Dragon and the Bear_. Also, well, you'll see.)**

* * *

**A City of Thieves**

Riften, the town of wood built upon Lake Honrich, the largest lake in the Rift. Crixus and Marcurio, dead tired after a long march through the woods of the Rift, were eager to put a door between them and the night, or what was left of it anyhow. Night was well along its way, though the shorter days of winter made night come sooner than in Cyrodiil. Instead of going directly towards the town, Marcurio led Crixus to the edge of the water, where a boat had been dragged up to the shore.

"I think Cedric brought this to shore, knowing I'd be on my way back," Marcurio said.

"Who?" Crixus asked.

"Cedric," Marcurio replied. "A Breton lad, part of a group of mercenaries I've been tagging along with. You know, things get boring sitting in the Bee and Barb in Riften, waiting for some hapless adventurer with coin enough and brain enough to enlist your services."

"Where are your friends?" Crixus asked.

"Probably waiting for us inside," Marcurio added. "They left Kynesgrove by the shortest path, I take it, and came here."

"And you?"

"Made a quick detour to Ivarstead," Marcurio smirked. "To woo a fair maiden. Voice like a wisp-mother, that one, not bad to look at either."

"And your friends," Crixus interjected. "Are they like you?"

"No, they're more of the common villainous sort you mentioned earlier," Marcurio added.

Crixus sighed. "I take it I'll be meeting fewer people with your kind of manners in this shite-hole of a country."

"No doubt of that," Marcurio replied.

They pushed the boat off together and Marcurio rowed it eastward, towards the lights flickering in the lake-town of Riften. They passed under a balcony or landing overhead and entered a canal that doubled as a street, with many of the town's actual walk-ways built upon wooden landings and platforms which hung above their heads. Crixus saw that the town, in what light there was with the torches from the hold guards and some upon the walls of the houses, was built on three levels. There was one level nearest the water, which was filthy and run-down and filled with people flitting in and out of the shadows, and there was another level upon which most of the walk-ways were built. The other level stood above that, but he saw very little of it in the dark.

They tied the boat up at one of the dock-like walkways on the lower level and Marcurio led Crixus up a flight of wooden stairs onto the main level of the city. He followed him through the empty streets of Riften, with any people they met on the streets quickly fading into the darkness. At last they came upon an inn with a sign hanging over the door, featuring a bee sitting on a fishing lure. Marcurio opened the door and led the way inside. Inside the common room of the tavern was dark but warm, with a few candles scattered about the tables and a warm fire on the hearth. At the bar there was an Argonian, one of the lizard-folk of Black Marsh. His body was covered from head to toe in green scales, there were small horns and feathery frills upon the back of his bald head, his hands were clawed, his eyes yellow and a tail hung from the end of his spine, popping out of a specially made hole at the back of his trousers.

"Talen-Jei!" Marcurio called out to the Argonian bartender. "A bed and a draught of Black-Briar mead for my friend."

"Another mercenary dragged into my tavern?" the Argonian asked, his voice gravelly and sly, but otherwise welcoming. "Well, as long as his coin is good."

"No need to worry about my coin," Crixus added to the scaly, lizard-faced Argonian. His coin purse had swelled with the addition of looting gold off the Stormcloaks he had slain. More like bandits than soldiers, he thought. It was enough for a room as well as enough mead as he could want for one night. Marcurio led him to a chair in the common room of the inn, where they sat down as they waited for their drinks.

"Well, now," Marcurio began. "Since we've put a door between us and the night, might as well get to know you."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Aren't you a mercenary? Are you paid to socialize as well as kill people with your magic?"

"I rather like you as well," Marcurio added. "It's alright if you don't want to."

"It's okay," Crixus sighed. "I just don't know how much I should tell. Imperial Legion, and all, and, if those bastards weren't mistaken, this is rebel territory, isn't it?"

"So I've heard from waiting around here," Marcurio added. "The Jarl, that's Laila the Law-Giver up in Mistveil Keep, is sympathetic to the plight of Ulfric Stormcloak. Doesn't actually do much about it as far as gold or troops."

"Why's that?" Crixus asked.

At that moment an Argonian woman appeared, with grey-brown scales and a face that, unlike Talen-Jei, had fewer frills upon the back. She placed two bottles of Black-Briar mead upon the table and left with a swish of her tail.

"Maven Black-Briar," Marcurio said. "Exactly who she is beyond the owner and operator of the Black-Briar meadery is somewhat of a mystery. Some people around here blame her for everything bad that happens to Riften, like how the Nords blame the Falmer for everything from crop failure to disappearing sheep."

"The Snow Elves..." Crixus said grimly.

"You know of the Falmer?" Marcurio asked. "I didn't think they had them in Cyrodiil."

"I read," Crixus replied cryptically.

"Of course," Marcurio continued. "Maven doesn't help with matters either. Some people say she has the Thieves Guild and the whole city in her pocket, with the Thalmor and the Dark Brotherhood at her beck and call. How much of that is truth and how much of that is just exaggeration, helped in no small part by Maven herself, I don't exactly know."

Crixus downed the mead, then slammed the bottle on the table. "Not that bad, actually."

"I'll see if I can score something stronger," Marcurio said. "Talen-Jei can always be counted on to get the good stuff."

* * *

When Crixus and Marcurio both went to sleep, they were so smashed that neither of them could walk straight. At last, however, instead of taking the rooms they had bought for themselves, they both collapsed on the bed in Marcurio's room and fell asleep. They were woken roughly three hours later by a knock on the door. Crixus rose first, pushing himself off the bed and opening the door. The grey-brown scaled Argonian woman was standing in the doorway.

"Oh, excuse me," she said. "I didn't think you would be in here."

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"I have a note for you," she began. "Actually, it was sent to your room, but you weren't there, so I thought I'd ask Marcurio. He was the last one who was seen with you." She handed Crixus the note, then departed. Rubbing his aching head, Crixus opened the note.

_Hail, stranger_

_Meet me at the Bunkhouse tonight at nine o'clock in the evening._

_-H_

Crixus did not know what to make of this note. He knew nobody in Skyrim, at least not anybody with an H as their first or last name. He wondered if he should share this note with Marcurio, asking him if he, a frequent resident of Riften, knew anything about this 'H' or the Bunkhouse. It was too much for him to handle after a long night of drinking and he stowed it away in his pocket while Marcurio rose up next to him.

"Awake already?" Marcurio groaned. "Who do we have to pay for the damages?"

Crixus laughed. "There's no damages to be paid. We fell asleep in your bed."

"Just great," Marcurio sighed. "Once we've had breakfast, I'll show you around town."

"Not too long," Crixus stated. "I have to be in Solitude as soon as possible for my orders."

"As you wish, legionnaire," Marcurio said, saluting Crixus sloppily.

Their breakfast was not very heavy, just a bowl of horker stew and some stout alto wine. Half-way through the stew, a golden-robed Redguard walked into the inn and suddenly began talking so loud that not a soul in the tavern was unaware of his presence.

"People of Riften, hear my words!" the Redguard said. "This war is not merely a pittance of two kingdoms against each other. It is a sign that Lady Mara is displeased with your incessant inebriation. Put down your flagons, filled with vile liquids meant to cloud the mind and senses, and embrace the teaching of the handmaiden of Kynareth!"

"Keep it in the temple, priest!" Crixus shouted.

"He's right, Maramal," the Argonian woman who had appeared at the door said to the Redguard from behind the counter. "We've talked about this before, you know."

"Kee-Rava," Maramal the priest turned now to the Argonian woman. "Please, certainly we must be able to come to some sort of an arrangement. These people must know of the chaos their inaction has brought about!"

"This establishment only sells mead," Kee-Rava said to the priest. "Now leave and stop pestering my customers with your croakings of doom!"

The priest nodded and then departed, but Crixus shook his head in disbelief.

"I outta tip that Argonian for what she did," he said, looking towards Kee-Rava. "The fewer lunatics like him we have roaming the streets of Tamriel, the better."

* * *

After they paid for their food, including a tip of fifty gold septims from Crixus' purse to Kee-Rava's hand, they made their way out of the Bee and Barb and into the market-square of Riften. It was densely populated, mostly with beggars lining the city-streets with hands or bowls held out, begging for alms. Marcurio led Crixus past these and into the square proper. They passed a wagon filled with produce run by a Dunmer woman, then turned right to where a scrawny Nord with red hair was advertising some product or other that Crixus guessed was a fraud. A little away from the market-square, he saw the real blacksmith of Riften. He was a tall, well-built Nord, of similar size and stature to the leader of the Stormcloaks which Crixus killed. In fact, if he hadn't put his axe through his head last night, he was certain that this was the exact same person. Tall, blond-haired and muscular with a long yellow beard. Hardly a scrawny Dunmer with one eye.

Beyond them they saw a green-scaled Argonian, his mouth hanging ajar, standing behind a stall filled with jewels and rings. Next to his stall was an armor stand with a Nord woman who was mocking the Argonian's gaping mouth. Crixus rolled his eyes, not even bothering to look at her wares. In between every stand and stall was a fishing stand with someone trying to out-sell the next guy with fish they claimed was fresher than the other guy's fish. Crixus soon realized that this was about one of the major exports of this city and it smelled like it as well.

"Hail, traveler," the unmistakable drawl of a Dunmer voice called out to Crixus from the right. Turning, he saw a modestly dressed Dunmer man standing behind a general goods stall. "You have the look of one familiar with the Ashlands. Can I interest you in some high quality goods from Morrowind?"

Before Crixus could make an answer, Marcurio pulled him away by the arm.

"Don't listen to Brand-Shei, he's a crook," he whispered to Crixus. "I've seen his wares. There's nothing there that you can't buy at any other general store in Skyrim, like the Pawned Prawn here, or even Belethor's Goods in Whiterun."

"A crook, now, eh?" a voice asked. Crixus and Marcurio turned around and saw the scrawny, red-haired Nord approach Crixus. He was thin-framed but was about as tall as Crixus and he had shifty eyes. "I bet you've never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, lad."

"What are you getting at?" Crixus replied. Suddenly the man took hold of Crixus' wrist, pushing aside the cloth coverings to reveal the Imperial gauntlets.

"Strange choice of armor for a traveler," the Nord said. "And you don't carry your purse on your belt." The Nord smiled a menacing, almost wolfish, grin. "I can tell a thief when I see one."

"Despite what you might think, snow-back," Crixus replied, teeth-clenched against possibly another assault by some Stormcloak fool. "I am no thief, and my drakes are my own business."

"But that's where you're wrong, lad," he replied, keeping his hand on Crixus' wrist. "Wealth is my business. But, seeing as how you're a kindred spirit and not foolish enough to leave your gold hanging on your belt for the first hand who wants it, perhaps you'd be interested."

"Take your hand off my wrist," Crixus replied in a measured, slow tone. "And then we'll talk."

The red-haired man released Crixus' wrist, then looked about for the guards before he continued.

"I've got a bit of an errand to perform," he explained. "But I need an extra pair of hands. And, in my line of work, extra hands are well paid."

"You need me to steal something, is that right?" Crixus asked.

"Not exactly steal, friend," the red-head replied. "More of a...transfer." He pointed across the market-square. "That Argonian, Madesi. He keeps a silver ring in a strong-box underneath his stand. Take it and put in that swindling Dunmer's pocket without him noticing." He pointed over to Brand-Shei's stall. "See? Simple enough, a child could do it."

"Aye," Crixus said, wary of this man's clever words and menacing smile. "And what exactly will you be doing while I put my neck on the line?"

"I'll be your diversion," he said. "Keep the guards and other shopkeepers distracted while you do your thing."

"I see," Crixus said. "Hey, just a minute, what have you got against the Dunmer?"

"Personally? Nothing," the red-head replied. "It's just that someone wants him out of business, no questions asked. That's all you need to know. Now, are you done with your questions? Ready to show me what you're made of?"

"I'll do it," Crixus replied grimly. The red-head flashed them another grin before taking off to his stall.

"What was that all about?" Marcurio asked once the red-haired man disappeared. "That fellow's with the Thieves Guild."

"Thieves Guild?" Crixus asked. "You mean people actually believe the Thieves Guild exist?"

"Of course," Marcurio returned. "Riften's been known as the home of the Thieves Guild for centuries. Why? What do they say back home?"

Crixus chuckled. "Nobody in Cyrodiil even believes the Thieves Guild exists, even two hundred years ago they were thought to be just a myth."

"Well, perhaps myth was where they belonged," Marcurio stated. "Word on the street is that they just sit around Riften, causing petty trouble for the locals who are already too poor for their own good."

"The Jarl doesn't do anything?" Crixus asked.

"Aye, right," Marcurio chuckled. "Like Laila the Law-Giver would get up off her arse and do something about the Thieves Guild. She's not really an effective leader, just stays in Mistveil Keep and lets her steward run things. Both of them are in Maven Black-Briar's pocket, so the people of this town say, and with her believed ties to the Thieves Guild."

"No one has that kind of power," Crixus said in disbelief. "I doubt even the Grey Fox could have had as much influence as..."

"Everyone! Everyone!" the voice of the red-haired Nord rose above the hypnotic lull of the daily grind. "Gather round! This way, over here, everyone! I have something amazing to show you all that demands your attention!"

Crixus noticed everyone's attention had turned towards the red-haired man, who was now standing on top of a crate. Some, such as the hold guards, were merely looking in his direction, while some of the shop-keeps and townsfolk were crowding around the crate, eager to hear what the red-haired man had to say. Meanwhile, Crixus pressed close to Marcurio that no one might overhear what he might say.

"Go with them," he whispered. "If they see you standing alone, they might get suspicious. I'll see you shortly."

Marcurio joined those thronging around the red-haired Nord while Crixus got down on his knees and crept towards the armor stand. He saw the jewelry stand just ten feet away, situated in a bowl of the market-place plaza with a short stone wall like a lip around the outer edge. He could use this to hide from view. He quickly ran thither, then took out his knife and thin metal lock pick. Crixus found the click in the lock very quickly and was able to slide the knife into place, opening up a wooden partition at the bottom of Madesi's stand. There was the strong-box which, Crixus rightly guessed, would be locked as well. In went the knife and the pick as he fiddled about for a few moments, eager to hear the click above the sound of the red-haired man advertising his diversion.

"What is it now, Brynjolf?" the drawling voice of Brand-Shei inquired. "This better be good."

"Patience, my good Brandi-Shei," the voice of Brynjolf, the red-haired Nord, replied. "This is a rare opportunity and I don't want you to be left out. Hey, no shoving over there! There's room enough for everyone!"

"Bah, another rare opportunity!" a sly-sounding voice retorted. "That's what you said about the wisp essence, which turned out to be nirnroot and water."

There was a loud clamor as other voices rose up in agreement with what the sly voice had said. Crixus used the distraction to open up the lid of the strong-box and lift out a tiny silver ring which he held tightly in his hands. As he shut the partition, he looked about to see if he was being watched as he crept along to the cover of the leather armor shop. Just two fish stands and then he would be behind Brand-Shei's stand. Craning his neck, he saw the dark elf sitting behind a few barrels stacked on the right-hand side of his stand, near to where Brynjolf was talking. His back was to the stand and there was just enough room to place the ring in his pocket. With one last look, Crixus crossed from the armor shop to Brand-Shei's stand.

"A simple misunderstanding, good Madesi," Brynjolf spoke over the clamor of voices. "But this is the real genuine thing." He paused for a moment. "Lads and lasses, I give to you...Falmer-blood miracle elixir! Live for hundreds of years, learn a library's worth of knowledge, or grow back that missing limb, all with my new Falmer-blood elixir! Make love like a saber-cat or crush your enemies to dust like a giant!"

Crixus waited until the dark elf leaned forward, then carefully dropped the ring into his back pocket, which hung open from the old trousers he was wearing. Without another word, he made his way out from behind the stall and looked towards where Brynjolf stood.

"Unfortunately, my time is up," Brynjolf stated to those around him. "But, do come again tomorrow if you wish to buy!"

"Bah!" Brand-Shei exclaimed. "Azura take your scams, Brynjolf."

Marcurio made his way towards Crixus just as he was looking towards the crowd. Some of the people, a tall, slender Nord woman with blond hair among them, were actually speaking to Brynjolf regarding the product he was attempting to sell.

"I see you've been making some new friends here," Marcurio noted with a sly grin. "And on your second day in Skyrim nonetheless!"

"Maybe, but not for long," Crixus said. "I have a journey to Solitude before me, one that will not wait."

"Maybe it can wait until the morning," Marcurio added. "I've got to go meet some of my mercenary comrades, tell them the job's done and get my fee. I'll ask them to see if there's any more work available. If not, I might be willing to accompany you, if you're willing."

"I just might be, Scipio," Crixus replied.

"Just don't walk into any spike-filled pits or filthy skeever-dens along the way." He slapped Crixus on the back, then made his way down the streets of Riften towards the direction of the Bee and Barb, pulling his hood up in an attempt to fight the chill coming off of the waterway. While Crixus stood there, looking on, Brynjolf came to his side.

"Well done!" he said. "You managed to lift the scale-back's ring and plant it in the dark elf's pocket without getting caught. I'm impressed! Looks like I've chosen the right man for the job. To tell you the truth, considering the way things have been going on around Riften lately, I'm surprised our little plan went off without a hitch."

"Oh?"

"My organization has been having a run of bad luck," sighed Brynjolf. "But I guess that's the way things go. Ah, never mind. What matters is you did the job and you did it well. I'd say you've more than earned this." He pulled out from within his bosom a small sack, which jingled as he placed it in Crixus' hand.

"Doesn't feel like much," Crixus said, judging the weight of the bag.

"Ah, but that's the good part," Brynjolf replied. "There's plenty more where that came from...if you think you can handle it, that is."

"Maybe I can," Crixus returned with a cynical arching of his eyebrow. "But I don't have the time for it now. I'm leaving tomorrow, I have business elsewhere in Skyrim."

"Fine, then," Brynjolf replied. He was grinning, though his tone of voice was not exceptionally happy. "Don't bother to contact us, we'll find you."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then made it his task to wander about town for the rest of the day. He would have to purchase a horse for the road ahead, as the detour through the Stormcloak camp had cost him almost a day now and he needed to be in Solitude as quickly as possible. Checking the map again, he saw that the quickest and the safest road to Solitude would be to head west from Riften to Ivarstead below the Throat of the World. From there a narrow pass snaked its way through the side of the plateau until it came to the foothills of the high mountain in the middle hold of Whiterun. This was a loyalist hold, as far as Crixus knew, and he would be safe from any more assaults by Stormcloaks as far as Solitude. There were no other rebel holds west of the Throat of the World.

* * *

It was now thirty minutes past the hour of eight o'clock in the evening. Night had long since set in upon the Rift and most of the shops had closed up and people were off to their homes for dinner and bed. Marcurio had finally returned from his fellow mercenaries and was regaling Crixus with what had happened therein when they met again that evening for dinner at the Bee and Barb.

"Turns out there isn't much of a market for spell-swords right now," he explained. "So it looks like we'll be spending a little bit more time together."

"That suits me fine," Crixus returned.

"There's one thing I would like to ask, though," Marcurio stated. "When you paid for our rooms for tonight, you only paid for one room. Do you plan on getting shite-faced and passing out on top of me again?"

"Not exactly," Crixus said. "It's just that, well, when I woke up this morning, I received a note from somebody." He reached into his bosom and produced the note that Kee-Rava had given him and handed it to Marcurio. The mage unfolded the note, read it for a few moments before cracking a smile and chuckling gently.

"You lucky bastard," he commented.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"Well, there's not much of a guess who this letter can be from," Marcurio said. "As far as I know, there's only five people who have H as the first letter of their name. First there's Hemming Black-Briar, spoiled little twat. He's the heir of the Black-Briar meadery and makes sure everybody knows it."

"Wait a minute, Black-Briar?" Crixus asked. "Is he related to Maven Black-Briar?"

"He's her eldest son," Marcurio stated. "Though you'd never know it by asking him. He treats his brother and sister like they're his children."

"How many are there in this family?" Crixus asked.

"Maven, Hemming, Ingun and Sibbi," Marcurio replied. "Ingun's rather tame, though it's Sibbi you want to watch out for. He's always hanging about the Bee and Barb, eying people who come in with a...malicious eye. I don't ever feel like crossing him, and I'm a mage! But, as I was saying, the other one would be Harrald Svensson, although he's taken the kenning his mother uses and calls himself 'the Law-Giver' as well. Lives up in Mistveil Keep, praises Ulfric Stormcloak as the true High King of Skyrim and can usually be found practicing with a dagger outside of the keep.

"Hafjorg's an old woman who owns Elgrim's Elixirs with her husband, down in the low levels. Then there's Hofgrir, he keeps the stables and usually has several hands working for him. Lately he's got a young lad just about seventeen or so, says he can't rely on Shadr, the Redguard stable-hand he's got right now, since he owes money to the Thieves Guild."

"It's not him," Crixus replied, shaking his head. "I spoke to him when I went to buy a horse for the journey, he said he didn't know anything about a letter. But you've only mentioned four people."

"The other one," Marcurio replied. "Is Haelga, owner of the Bunkhouse. Likely she's the one who wrote the note, as it says to meet her in the Bunkhouse at nine, which should be here in a while. It's on the northern side of town, across from the Bee and Barb on the middle level. You should be getting over there as soon as possible."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"The Bunkhouse," Marcurio answered with a grin. "She says only 'shopkeepers' can stay there. But there are a few rumors around town that her customers are there for more than the beds, if you know what I mean."

Crixus chuckled. "Then I guess I should be on my way, shouldn't I?"

"Aye," Marcurio added. "You won't be needing that room tonight, I see."

* * *

Crixus finished his drink, then made his way to the door. He had a long night ahead of him, he thought, based on Marcurio's cryptic answer. As he passed through the streets, those few who were still about shrank into the shadows away from him, while the hold guards kept to their patrols. Following Marcurio's instructions, he passed over a bridge spanning a canal and came at last to the building in question. He did not have to wait for long, as he saw the slender, straw-headed Nord woman he had seen in the market-square earlier today approach him with a torch in her hand.

"Hey there, stranger," she said. "Why don't you come on inside?"

Crixus followed the woman inside the Bunkhouse. Inside it was a cozy little inn with several rooms and a small fire crackling away in the hearth. At the back of the entry room there was a counter, behind which was a door and to that door the woman led Crixus.

"Are you Haelga?" he asked.

She smiled coyly and nodded, but said no other words as she opened the door behind the counter and walked inside, beckoning Crixus to follow with her finger. Inside was a small private bedroom with a double-wide bed. Upon the short dresser on the right of the bed there was a jar, two or three bottles that looked like alchemical potions rather than mead. On the other side of the room there were a pair of shackles hanging from the wall, and strips of leather lying on the floor next to a pair of black boots. The left-hand dresser had two books lying atop it and, wedged up against the wall, a small shrine shaped like a lily not yet in bloom.

"What is this?" Crixus chuckled.

"You should consider yourself lucky," Haelga said at last. "I don't bring just anyone in from the streets. Usually only the shopkeepers and hard-working people of Riften come here."

"So why me?"

"I saw you and your friend drinking in the Bee and Barb last night," Haelga said. "You were both drunk and I heard you in particular talking about all the things you've done. I wanted to see if they were true."

"Why were you in the Bee and Barb?" Crixus asked suspiciously.

"Talen-Jei and I had a bit of an...arrangement," Haelga replied. "But don't worry, it's over and done with. Now come on, undress."

Crixus removed his cloak and began working on his armor. Meanwhile, Haelga was working on the straps of her dress. For a moment, he looked over at the shackles hanging on the wall.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me clapped in irons for this, eh?" he asked.

"That's the way it usually goes," Haelga replied with a wicked smile, then she laughed. "Hofgrir's stable-boy, now that was another story. Sorry little brat, didn't last very long. Didn't surprise me, though."

"You fucked the stable-boy?" Crixus asked. "He's barely old enough to know what to do with his cock!"

"We are called to open our hearts to the noble secrets of art and love," Haelga replied. "What I did for him was a favor, and one day, if he ever marries, his wife will thank me for it."

"Almost sounds like some sort of cult," Crixus replied.

"Some people may call it a cult," Haelga answered. "But the teachings of Dibella are well-respected by many in Tamriel."

"Oh, another religious nut," Crixus groaned.

"You don't believe in Dibella?" Haelga asked.

"I don't believe in any of the so-called Divines," Crixus retorted. "They don't do anything for anybody and yet they expect everyone to worship them."

"But surely you wouldn't turn this down, would you?" Haelga asked with pursed lips and an impudent face. Then she let her dress fall down to her ankles, revealing a very fit body with breasts the size of large tomatoes hanging seductively below her neck.

Crixus grinned lasciviously as he began tossing his armor onto his cloak. "So, what should we do, then?"

"Just lie down on the bed," Haelga said. "And I'll do the rest."

* * *

**(AN: Meh, no descriptive sexy time yet, but implied. Unlike Eirik, whose only had sex a total of four times in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ [Lydia once, a Bosmer lady of the evening once - Sanguine was involved, get off his case! - and Mjoll twice], none at all in _The Dragon and the Bear_, Crixus...gets around. The ones that will be depicted will be the important ones.)**

**(On another note, I always loved Brynjolf's Falmer blood elixir scam, especially the dialogue [kind of got "make love like a saber-cat" and "crush your enemies to dust like a giant" mixed up and ended up hearing "fuck like a giant", yes i'm a little perverted]. But Crixus still has other things to do before he can dedicate his time to the Thieves Guild, but that quest-line _will_ be explored in this story.)**


	5. Setting Out

**(AN: For some reason, the Fan-Fiction Doc Manager is being kind to me and uploading my chapters to the Manager without deleting all the text save the title. This means all I have to do is proofread the story and expound a little [of course i'll probably make plenty of mistakes, so if there is anyone reading this story - this is an S.O.S. - if you find any grammatical or syntax errors in the text, please feel free to point them out.)**

**(Bad news, though, Crixus makes a poor judgment decision in this chapter. My brother [yes, it took us five chapters to start doing that...again!] insisted that Crixus and Marcurio should go to Solitude by going through the Pale and passing by Frostmere Crypt in order to expound upon a bandit character i personally couldn't care less about. But hey, this is not entirely my story, it is more influenced by my brother's direction than _Tira: a Tale of Torment_, so what can i do?)**

* * *

**Setting Out**

When Crixus awoke, he found that he was in Marcurio's room in the Bee and Barb, lying on the rug on the floor. All of the previous night seemed like a dream, too good to be true. He took a moment to examine himself. He was still clad in his Legionnaire traveling gear, with none of his weapons apparently stolen. If he had indeed spent last night with Haelga in the Bunkhouse, she hadn't taken anything from him. It was then that he noticed something placed between him and the rug. Turning over he saw that it was a small, somewhat bulky note. He untied the string and opened it up. Within the note was a small blue gem and written upon the note were these words.

_Had to get you out of the house. Discretion is the name of the game, you know. People around here wouldn't understand. Take this gem with you, it bears the Mark of Dibella. Present it to me at the Bunkhouse and I'll see about fitting you in somewhere. Can't wait, last night was the best I've ever had! Dibella guide you_

_-Haelga_

Crixus crumbled up the note but stowed the gem away in his pocket without another glance. An easy lay every once in a while was not un-welcomed, but he would not put up with her Dibella nonsense.

Now awake, he looked over the map he owned before making his way into the common room, where he paid for a meager breakfast before he would depart. Shortly before he got underway with his foot, Marcurio came down and paid for their room and for a bit of wine for himself, then sat down at the table with Crixus.

"Big plans today?" he asked.

"There's been too much delay," Crixus returned. "I have to be in Solitude as soon as possible."

"The shortest route," Marcurio began. "Is by the main road, which goes north out of Riften and down the plateau of the Rift until it comes to the southern end of the fens of Eastmarch. From there it turns west and passes around the northern flanks of the Throat of the World and into Whiterun."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "There's been a change of plans. I don't like the idea of going straight across Whiterun. Isn't that plain country?"

"Yes," Marcurio nodded. "Nothing but oceans of grass from the foot of the Throat of the World to the gullies and crags of the Reach in the west."

"Then we should avoid Whiterun at all costs," Crixus said. "It's too open."

"There's nothing to fear from Whiterun," Marcurio stated. "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater has made Whiterun neutral territory, neither for the rebels or the Empire to quarter troops there."

"Do they have any Talos worshipers there?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, I think so."

"Then they're not neutral," Crixus stated firmly. "Any shrine or amulet or chapel to Talos is a violation of the White-Gold Concordant and those who let them stand are in no way loyal to the Empire. Besides, if this Jarl Balgruuf doesn't allow the Legion to garrison and quarter troops there, he's in direct defiance of the Legion's right." He drank again from his cup, then shook his head. "No, we're not going anywhere near Whiterun, not if it can be helped."

"I don't believe that it's as bad as you make it out to be," Marcurio suggested. "But, I'm not paid to argue, just to fight. I will go with you, but sooner or later, we will have to come through Whiterun."

"There has to be another way," Crixus stated.

"If you like," Marcurio replied sardonically. "You can go north to Windhelm, ask if Ulfric Stormcloak will give a Legionnaire safe passage through his realm. That should go over well."

"Ex-Legionnaire," Crixus clarified. "I'm not with the Legion until I return to Solitude. Besides, I wouldn't grovel before that murdering, traitorous dog for a crust of moldy bread if I was dying of hunger."

"Then what safer, better way did you have in mind?" Marcurio asked. "Scale the snow-clad mountains to the west and make your way into Falkreath? You'd still have to pass through Whiterun that way."

Crixus pulled out the map, took another drink and tore into the grilled chicken breast on his plate, then placed the map on the table and pointed out to Marcurio his new path.

"It would be a boon to the Empire if we captured the Rift," Crixus first began. "The layout of the land is perfect for defense. No wide sloping valleys leading up onto the plateau, just these two narrow paths here, by the eastern face of the Throat of the World, and here, north of Shor's Stone. More like goat paths, these two."

"Actually," Marcurio spoke up. "The way by Shor's Stone is much wider than you think. An army going either way could..."

"I don't give a shite," Crixus stated. "We're not going that way." He sighed, then pointed to the 'goat path' by the Throat of the World and the town of Ivarstead. "From here, we go straight north, cutting across the wooded western borders of Eastmarch and going up onto Shearpoint Mountain. Then it's west, safely hidden under the snowy forests of the southern Pale, north again to this Hall of the Vigilants, then west all the way to Solitude."

Marcurio laughed. "You know nothing of the lay of the land in Skyrim if you suggest that way as your road. The wooded western borders of Eastmarch are mountainous: there is no path through them to the peak of Shearpoint from the south, only from the north. Furthermore, the Pale is Stormcloak territory and your path would have us more than two thirds of the breadth of the hold! Moreover, it is not 'west all the way to Solitude' from the Hall of the Vigilants. The fens of Hjaalmarch lie between, which make the salt flats of Eastmarch seem like a spring puddle. Lastly, Solitude lies on a cliff high above the bay: you would have to go far west to Dragon Bridge, then turn east again and climb the steep highway on the cliff's edge to the gates of Solitude."

"Uh-huh," Crixus said in disbelief, then pointed back towards the Pale. "We go this way."

"I don't see," Marcurio replied. "How it would be safer going through two rebel holds, both of them just leaving winter, rather than risk being spotted on the plains of Whiterun."

"It would take too long to cross the plains of Whiterun," Crixus said. "Even if we only skirt its north-eastern border. Plus, I don't trust going near Whiterun. Too many eyes in and out of that place, most of them I fear on the side of the rebels. The last place they'd expect me to go would be through the Pale."

Marcurio laughed. "Who's they? The Stormcloaks? Gods, you only killed one troop, and thoroughly at that! Do you honestly believe word has reached Windhelm that quickly?"

"Word travels fast, so it's been said," Crixus replied. "But I have nothing to fear from the rebels." He cast nervous eyes this way and that and towards the door before he leaned in and whispered to Marcurio. "It's the Thalmor I'm concerned about."

Marcurio's face furrowed in a look of confusion. "I thought they only went after Talos-worshipers. Besides, there are no Thalmor holdings in Whiterun, at least there weren't any when I last looked."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Yes, it's true that the Thalmor didn't appear in Tamriel until after the Markarth Incident, but that doesn't explain why they're in the Imperial City also."

"They have Thalmor in the Capital?" Marcurio asked.

"Not publicly," Crixus replied. "As far as I've heard in Mournhold, nobody in Cyrodiil worships Talos anymore. There's even talk about striking his name from the Septim dynasty. Of course, I wouldn't mind: from all I've heard, Tiber Septim was a back-stabbing, power-hungry madman who would have traded his soul to any daedric prince who offered him rule over all of Tamriel." He chuckled. "Hardly worth of being celebrated as a man, much less a god."

"But why are the Thalmor in Cyrodiil?" Marcurio inquired.

"Look, I've said too much," Crixus groaned. "We'll go by way of the Pale and that's that. Now up with you: I'll pay for our food and board and meet you out by the stables."

"As you wish," Marcurio stated. Crixus rose up from the table, his food half-way done, wrapped up the map and placed it underneath his arm as he turned towards the bar to pay. While he was walking but not yet far away, Marcurio turned around and asked: "Oh, by the way, how was it, last night?"

Crixus looked back, a grin on his face. "Excellent."

* * *

Morning was well on its way when Crixus and Marcurio left Riften by horse. Marcurio was clad in his mage's robes with a hood pulled down over his head and Crixus wore leather ranger gear and a warm cloak with a hood to cover his head and back. The Imperial garb were stowed away in a large sack on the back of Crixus' horse, which meant that he always lagged at the rear. They would have shared the burden but Marcurio was insistent.

"Nothing for me, thank you very much," he said. "I am an apprentice wizard, not a pack mule."

They had not passed but a few yards north of the north-gate of Riften when Crixus turned his horse right and eastward. Marcurio followed as they made their way around the eastern wall of Riften and around to the southern side, on the outside of the town. Marcurio slackened the pace of his horse and turned to Eirik.

"Why are we going this way?" he asked. "North would have been the swiftest way."

"We're going on the other side of the river," Crixus added. "Too many eyes on the north side." Marcurio sighed. "What? More arguments?"

"Like I said before, I'm paid to fight, not argue," Marcurio said. "If you want to go the long way, then so be it."

It was dusk when at last they arrived in Ivarstead at the far end of the Rift hold, having gone the long way around Lake Honrich. Marcurio suggested that they spend the night in the Vilemyr Inn, but Crixus once again refused. He did not say why and it bothered Marcurio visibly that they would be traveling all night, without spending the night in the inn. Secretly, he had wanted to sample the wine at Vilemyr, but he decided to go with Crixus instead.

At last they came to a little-used goat-path which wound down the northern end of Ivarstead, down by the cliffs that marked the edge of the plateau of the Rift. The path, while treacherous during the day, was even more dangerous at night. This path, Marcurio told Crixus, would put them along the course that he had chosen for his path across the Pale.

"I still feel that this is ill-advised," Marcurio said.

"Thankfully, you're not in charge of my decisions," Crixus replied. "I am, and I say we go this way."

"I don't mean the path," Marcurio returned. "What I mean is your decision to pass Ivarstead by completely. You know, we could have gotten food, directions, maybe even some news, at the Vilemyr Inn."

"And wine," Crixus chuckled. "But no, I've risked enough as it is being in Riften, I won't run that risk again."

"Risk of what, the Thalmor?" Marcurio asked. "Look, I might not know about where their base of operations are or how many justicars are in each hold, but I do know that they have no place in the eastern holds, the rebel ones. You wouldn't be running the risk of running into them, if that's what you're worried about."

Crixus scoffed. "That's what you think, isn't it?" he began. "But here's something they don't tell you in these eastern, rebel holds in Skyrim. Something that the Empire finds very disconcerting."

"Mind telling me what that is?" Marcurio asked. "Look, I don't have to know, I just want to. I know that doesn't exactly turn you on to telling me, but you need to trust somebody, right? Maybe I can help you."

"And how can you help me kill Ulfric Stormcloak?" Crixus asked.

"I don't think that's why you're here," Marcurio chuckled. "Or you wouldn't bring the Thalmor into this."

Crixus sighed. "The Thalmor have been part of this since the Great War. And what's more, this whole situation, this civil war, is all their doing."

"How do you figure?" Marcurio chuckled, giving Crixus leeway to explain himself.

"The official story," Crixus began. "Is that Ulfric Stormcloak escaped imprisonment from the Dominion during the Great War and came back to Skyrim, eager to change the world and put his people first again and all that bullshit. But that's not true, that's not even partially true. The truth is that Ulfric was allowed to escape by the Dominion and sent back as an agent for the Dominion."

"Do you indeed believe that?" Marcurio asked. "I mean, Jagar Tharn impersonated Uriel Septim back in the Third Era, so it's not outside of the realm of possibility that Ulfric might be a Thalmor agent in disguise."

"No, he's real enough, alright," Crixus said. "He certainly shows off all the behavior of these dumb, brutish Nords. Do you honestly believe a Nord could have escaped an Aldmeri prison? And then there's his track-record, that says he was a war hero in the Battle of the Red Ring. I was at the Red Ring and I never saw him. I personally doubt if he was ever there to begin with. And then he comes back to Skyrim and what's the first thing he does? Does he begin his little crusade for the welfare of the people of Skyrim? No! He attacks Markarth, slaughtering innocent women and children, people who owned that place by rights, to which he had no claim!"

"Oh, so you side with the Reachmen, eh?" Marcurio asked.

"I side with anyone against a Nord!" Crixus stated sharply. "But first Ulfric makes a name for himself as the Bear of Markarth, as the Empire is falling apart at the seams. Morrowind is half buried in ash, half the annex of Black Marsh, Valenwood and Elsweyr are part of the Dominion, and now Hammerfell secedes. Damn Redguards, they just couldn't bend their knees to lawful, just Imperial rule and let the Dominion take their land, could they? No, they _had_ to start another war and weaken the Empire even more! Now only High Rock and Skyrim are still part of the war, and then Ulfric begins his little campaign against the Empire!"

"Your point being?"

"He's being used by the Thalmor to weaken the Empire!" Crixus retorted.

At this, Marcurio laughed. "Look, I may not know much about the political maneuverings behind the scenes of the Great War, but I've been to Windhelm. Elves are held in derision there. The Snow Quarter has been renamed the 'Grey Quarter' because of all the Dunmer living there, crowded together like pigs in a slaughterhouse. And the Nords treat them like shit, to say nothing of the Argonians: they're not even allowed to live in the city at all!"

"Your point being?" Crixus asked smugly.

"There's no way that Ulfric is working for the Thalmor!" Marcurio answered, still laughing.

"While I did not say that he was working for the Thalmor," Crixus replied. "I don't think that's entirely impossible. Still, if he is not working for the Thalmor, his actions are certainly helping them weaken the Empire. Personally, I think his time in the Dominion prisons broke him and he's been deliberately working for them. Because of that, I can't trust any hold in this skeever-hole of a country, not even rebel holds. Likely behind every throne of some Talos-thumping Nord Jarl, there's a Thalmor justicar controlling the strings from the shadows."

"Then why are we going to Solitude?" Marcurio asked.

"It's the only place I can trust," Crixus answered. "Because it's the only place where the Legion is rightfully garrisoned. Knowing what I know, General Flavius Tullius won't let those elvish bastards in there, not by a long shot."

"And that's why you're taking us on this round-about wild goose chase?" Marcurio asked. "Because you're afraid there's Thalmor justicars behind every bush."

"What I'm saying is that I don't know," Crixus diplomatically replied, evading direct answer of the question. "And until I know, all holds are potentially hostile and will be avoided."

"I still think it's a lot of back-tracking for nothing," Marcurio whispered underneath his breath.

"Didn't you just say you wouldn't argue?" Crixus asked.

* * *

Carefully, and with torches lit by Crixus, much to Marcurio's approval ("You'd never believe how many employers I've worked under who fell into some spike-filled pit just because they didn't bother to bring a torch!"), the two made their way down the goat-path. Despite Marcurio informing Crixus about the small way-town of Nimalten, a popular rest spot for couriers going to and from from Windhelm and the western holds to Riften, Crixus refused to spend the night there and so they continued on doing the trail. It was narrow and steep and in places they had to dismount and lead their horses down the path. More than once they thought they heard loud growling in the woods, or the howling of some large, apish creature.

"More trolls," Crixus grimaced. "I faced those in the Jerall Mountains. Just barely escaped."

"Ah, but you didn't have me with you," Marcurio replied. "Trolls are weak to fire and I know more than a few spells in the school of destruction magicka."

Perhaps the fear of fire kept the trolls at bay, for they encountered none that night. A small pack of wolves came nipping at the knees of the horses, but Marcurio was able to scare them off with a flame spell, though they had to wait a while to calm the horses down before they could continue. They rode on, passing by a small guard village Marcurio said had been made to guard the pass. Crixus once again dismissed stopping there-at and continued on his chosen course. When at last they left the mountain pass, however, they found that they were presently close to a stream or river, for they could hear water moving in the darkness. Even with a torch held aloft, there was little light for seeing. Crixus was the first one down from the mountain pass, and in the light of the torch, they saw cobble-stones upon the ground at the foot of the pass between it and the river.

"I think I know where we are now," Marcurio said. "This must be the White River, which means that we must be on the east road. It winds along the northern edge of the Throat of the World before ascending towards the Valtheim Towers that span the gap of the White River. If you plan on going into the Pale, it would be best to hazard that way."

"No," Crixus said. "We go straight north from here."

"If I know anything about this land," Marcurio replied. "It's that the mountains surrounding Shearpoint are very sheer on the south side, with gentler slopes on the eastern side. Though I think that if we went through the Towers, we could reach the Pale swifter, if that is indeed your goal."

Crixus sighed. "Fine, show me this way. If we can't scale mountains, we might as well go around them."

The path from where they had set foot up to the Towers of Valtheim was not directly straight. From where they stood, it curved north and then sharply south as it passed up the steep cliffs that marked the edge of the border of Eastmarch and Whiterun. At the top, the path turned back around before turning west and terminating at the foot of the towers. These two had to find their way there in the dark, both of them on horse-back.

"Why don't you have a candle-light spell or something?" Crixus asked. "You're the mage, after all."

"Why don't _you_ have one?" Marcurio asked. "My customers are always complaining that I don't have that spell or spare torches on me. Do I look like a torch carrier?"

"Well, maybe they have a point?" Crixus asked. "We could go a lot faster at night if we had a little more light."

"We'd also attract some unwelcome guests as well," Marcurio began, but halted as a roar was heard in the depths of the trees nearby. They halted as the horses paced nervously beneath them and once again the roar was heard, and then the soft thudding of heavy feet upon earth and stone.

"Trolls," Crixus stated, drawing his bow and arrow.

"I've got this one," Marcurio said, dismounting.

The sound of a large troll was heard lumbering towards them from further up the pass. In the dark, Crixus could not see Marcurio stride out in front of the horses until a flash of fire burst forth from his hands as a flaming fire-bolt. The ball struck the troll, hurling the massive beast off its feet and back at least a foot. Marcurio did not wait for the troll to recover and ran about, following what he had briefly seen in the light of the spell before following it up with another. This one pushed the troll's kneeling body off the side of the cliff on the left-hand of the road. With a loud roar it went sailing down and came at last to rest with a thudding crash.

Crixus chuckled. "Well, I'll say, that was indeed impressive!"

"I aim to please, as always," Marcurio said. "Now, let's get on with our road."

They faced little to no other challenges on the road up the side of the cliff. When at last they came to the top, they saw lights waiting for them upon two large towers that stood somewhat aside from each other. Between them they could see a small light bobbing, floating as it were in the middle of the air. At their right-hand side, they could hear the endless rushing of the White River.

"There they are," Marcurio said, pointing vaguely into the darkness in the direction of the lights. "Valtheim Towers, and it looks like they're occupied. Bandits, most likely. They shouldn't put up much of a fight."

"If we choose to fight them," Crixus replied. "A nice bandit raid, now that would get people talking."

"Are you sure you're not paranoid?" Marcurio asked.

Crixus scoffed. "Do you even know what paranoia means?"

"Just because I live in Skyrim," Marcurio retorted. "Doesn't mean I didn't train under the finest mages of the Arcane University. They might have disbanded the Mages Guild, but the university still accepts young, aspiring magicians from all walks of life. They have whole studies on the five schools of magical training: Alteration, Conjuration, Destruction, Illusion and Restoration. I chose destruction, because there's something enjoyable about roasting your enemies in a gout of arcane fire that I just couldn't get from turning metal into gold, summoning daedra or magical weapons, healing some idiot who put their foot into a bear-trap or instilling fear and paranoia in one's enemies."

"Whatever," Crixus replied. "Look, I'm not paranoid, just cautious. I'd rather be safe and sorry. I'm not like your regular customers, who go running into the thick of every battle, crying 'death or Sovngarde' like their deaf, dumb, blind and dead gods even give two shits about them! I think before I get myself into anything."

"So, great think of the people of Cyrodiil," Marcurio jested. "How shall we escape the bandits of the Towers of Valtheim?"

"Leave that to me," Crixus said confidently.

They rode on, but slower than usual. Though all was clad in darkness, they were swiftly passing under the berth of the south tower, rising up in the dark on their right. As they approached, a lone bandit approached, clad in armor made out of animal hide, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other.

"Good evening, Redguard," Crixus greeted. "Is this the part where you say 'stand and deliver?'"

"Very funny, Cyrodilian," the bandit woman retorted. Crixus frowned: nothing angered him greater than some prick calling him 'Cyrodilian'. "You and your friend off someplace in a hurry, now?"

"Maybe," Crixus replied. "What is that to you?"

"Could be quite a bit," the Redguard answered. "You see, nobody gets through this pass without paying the toll."

"Toll?" Crixus asked. "You're bandits, why do you need any more money?"

"You're certainly rich enough to afford a horse, stranger," the bandit retorted. "Why do you need any more money yourself? But still, this doesn't have to come to blows. Just pay us twenty septims and you can be on your way."

"This is a shake-down," Marcurio whispered to Crixus. "All the passes around Skyrim are dangerous due to the war, so bandits set themselves up wherever they're sure there will be plenty of traffic."

"Didn't I say it would be so?" Crixus asked smugly, then turned to the bandit. "Very well, twenty drakes it is." He threw a few coins on the ground, letting her pick them up for herself as he and Marcurio brought their horses past the towers, continuing on their way westward, down the road that would lead them into Whiterun.

"I thought we weren't going this way," Marcurio spoke up. "Too great a risk of being spotted."

"And we won't," Crixus said. "This is where we leave the road again. From the map, I remember this river, the White River, is in a ravine. We should be able to walk under it for a while and avoid being seen."

"And when the river turns south?" Marcurio asked.

"We'll go north," Crixus said. "And then make our way through the Pale."

"Then we'll have to swim through the White River," Marcurio stated. "Not something I had in mind, but, as I said before, you're the boss."

* * *

**(AN: And here the writing started getting grueling. But don't worry, there's still much more to be written. And maybe since I can focus my whole energies on this story, it will get done sooner. ****Crixus will eventually learn the candlelight spell which he had in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, but he doesn't start with it.)**

**(PLEASE review!)**


	6. The Pale

**(AN: And...here is our pay-off for Crixus being stupid in the last chapter. Eisa will, of course, have a plot-line and a character arc because, as i said, this story will meander. My brother [-sigh-] loves having things happen in his fictions for no reason other than "because things happen". Not because they can be solved by the main character ["that's so Kirkbride!"], but just so that things happen. So yeah, there might be useless, derivative and pointless things happening that have no bearing on the plot. They are just there to be there.)**

* * *

**The Pale**

By morning, Crixus and Marcurio had already made their way out of the hold of Whiterun and into the southern end of the Pale. They had crossed the White River at the bend and swiftly passed along-side the western end of the Shearpoint hills. Before them, under the gathering light of dawn, the hold stretched out before them in all of its white, shimmering glory. Near at hand the steppe plains of Whiterun faded into the eaves of a forest, which went on through the Pale until all of its greenery was blanketed by the snows of the Pale. Presently, their path would lead them through the snow-clad forests of the Pale that lay before them.

"Do you see now?" Crixus replied, a smile on his face as he knew that he had been right. "We'll be perfectly safe from any prying eyes."

"Except the Stormcloaks," Marcurio stated, leading his horse up alongside Crixus' as they both galloped through the snowy forest. "This is their hold after all. Besides, it's the coldest hold in all of Skyrim, and that's saying quite a bit. We might be laying our bones in this place before I have the chance to say 'I told you so.'"

"How do these Nords endure it?" Crixus scoffed.

"They must love the cold," Marcurio pondered aloud.

They rode on, going steadily north-west, through the forest of tall pines, dressed in the white frost of winter like Colovian princesses at a ball. The wind also was growing cold swiftly and the snow about the feet of their horses was getting deeper and deeper: their going was, by reason, steadily becoming slower and slower, until their horses now moved slower than a trot. Marcurio had pulled his hood down over his head and stuffed his hands into his gloves, but while Crixus had come prepared for a journey in the mountains, the biting cold of the Pale was starting to get to him. Moreover, as they were slowly trudging, snow began blowing heavily upon them, encompassing both of them in a blinding blizzard of snow and ice.

"Still think this was a good idea?" Marcurio called back through the blinding snow.

Crixus grumbled but did not respond. Inside he conceded that he had been in error, but he refused to believe that his error was not justified. He had never been to Skyrim, he really did not know how deep the Thalmor were in the strata of Skyrim, especially with Ulfric working as their agent. He did not answer Marcurio because he was wounded in pride over being wrong, he refused to answer Marcurio because he, Crixus, knew that he had been right and there was no use in arguing or posturing before Marcurio, a fellow Colovian.

Hours wound on and, beyond the clouds of the snow-storm which held the Pale in its grasp, the sun was already westering towards High Rock. In the Pale, what had once been known as Heljarchen Vale, Servius Crixus and Scipio Marcurio were trudging through snow almost two feet deep. Their horses, the strong, sturdy steeds of Skyrim, were built for the harsh weather and could wade easily through snow: this served their advantage, despite Crixus' constant remarks about how fat and ugly they were compared to the stallions of Cyrodiil.

"But you and I both know," Marcurio said, practically shouting over the din of the storm. "That a Colovian steed would never have been able to make it through this snow."

Crixus said nothing but looked ahead through the blinding snow, thinking that, for a moment, he saw a shadow pass through the trees on the road up ahead. Marcurio said nothing, though his muffler was pulled up over his mouth, but kept his eyes trained ahead just the same. They rode on for a few paces until Crixus saw for certain the dark outline of a figure walking through the trees just to his left. Slowly, Crixus drew two arrows from his quiver, placing one between his teeth and another into the string of his bow. He did not pull the bow back to its full strength, but kept his hands upon the shaft and the string, in case he needed to let one loose. The snow was still too blinding and his target too far away: he had to be sure of his target.

Suddenly the figure stepped out of the snow and Crixus saw for certain what it was: a Nord, by the size, clad in leather armor with heavy fur boots and a blue cloak upon his back. At his belt was an axe and hanging over his cloak was a shield. Crixus did not wait to be seen or discovered; he knew his prey and there was only one thing to do before he was caught. With a quick in-take of air, he drew the bow back and sent a shaft straight into the eye of the Stormcloak. He staggered back, crying out loudly and clutching at his face with his hands.

"Should have hit him in the throat," Marcurio said.

"I was _aiming_ for the throat," Crixus replied, drawing the second arrow out from between his lips and fitting it into the bow-string.

"I've counted at least six others in the trees," Marcurio said, casting his gaze around. "We've wandered right into a trap, it would seem."

"Damn Stormcloaks," Crixus cried as he let loose another arrow. The Nord was just pulling the first one out of his eye when the second one pierced his throat and silenced his screaming.

With that, the others burst from the trees, shouting and howling battle cries upon their enemies. Marcurio conjured a fire-ball that sent one flying backward and smashing against the trunk of a tree. Meanwhile, Crixus had drawn out his short sword from his belt and was urging his horse towards one of the nearest rebels. The snow was deep and while the Stormcloaks were lightly armored and swiftly moved through the heavy snow towards him, the horse's feet didn't move as easily as theirs. Crixus soon found himself being surrounded by three Stormcloaks. One was a large man with a great-sword, the other had a mace and a shield and the third had a spear with which she jabbed at the horse, sending it neighing and rearing up on its hind legs in fright.

Meanwhile, Marcurio had been picked up off his horse and thrown into the snow by a particularly large Nord, who shouted at the horse, sending it running in fright. The apprentice mage was quick on his feet and pulled himself up out of the snow and sent a fire-ball straight into the back of the large Nord, sending him sprawling face first into icy cold snow. The second, a shield-maiden with an axe, came swinging at him from the rear, but he, being lightly armored, leaped aside to evade the blow. The Stormcloak swung horizontally, but Marcurio leaned back to miss the blow, falling back and crashing into the snow. The shield-maiden pulled him up out of the snow with the beard of her axe, but suddenly stumbled back as a blast of fire burned through her leather armor from Marcurio's hands.

On the other hand, Crixus' horse had reared up in terror from the spear thrusts and had thrown Crixus to the ground. The large Nord with the great-sword put down his sword as he ran towards Crixus, lifting him up out of the snow and bashing him in the face with his fore-head. The helmet blow made Crixus stagger and see stars as the large Nord lifted him up off his feet, dragged him over to a tree and pinned him against the bark as he began raining fierce blows into Crixus' chest. After nine blows had been struck, he threw Crixus back into the snow and let the others take care of him. Barely risen from his feet, the mace-wielder ran at Crixus, striking him a blow in the chest that sent Crixus doubling over with pain. The third one dropped her spear and drew out a knife with which she attacked Crixus: but they had severely underestimated the strength of their foe, caught off-guard. With both hands he seized the knife mere inches from his face and pushed it inch by painful, struggling inch into the stomach of the Stormcloak.

Seeing that their quarry was putting up even more of a fight than they had expected, the other two rushed him. The large Stormcloak was suddenly hit by something icy which ran through his leg, sending him down on one knee, which the mace-wielder swiftly charged at Crixus. He ducked the charge aside and aimed a blow at the man's temples, but missed as the soldier was still running. The mace came around but Crixus leaped to the side, dodging the blow with ease as he rolled through the snow, reaching for his short-sword which had fallen when he fell off his horse. A swift jab into the neck and the Nord fell dead, then Crixus heaved his sword into the back of the large Nord, felling him. Looking around, he saw the Stormcloak he had downed with her own knife crawling away. He ran towards her and gave her a kick to the stomach which caused her to squirm on the ground. He then kicked her over onto her back, then stomped aggressively down onto her face with his boot.

"Nord scum!" Crixus growled menacingly. He did not notice Marcurio approaching him from behind until he spoke.

"I can understand a loyal son of the Empire," he said. "Hating lawless rebels, but unless you haven't realized it already, this is Skyrim. It's full of Nords. You can't exactly be saying that to every Nord who comes across your path."

"Why can't I?" Crixus asked. "These straw-headed, drunken idiots are more trouble than their worth. If the stability of the Empire didn't depend on Skyrim, I would say Oblivion take all these blood-thirsty, back-stabbing, mead-drinking motherfuckers." He walked over to the large Stormcloak and drew out his sword, cleaning the blood off the blade.

"That's not the Colovian way," Marcurio said.

"What do you know about the Colovian way?" Crixus asked.

"I may be a mercenary," Marcurio began. "But I know a thing or two about history. Hell, practically everything in those barrows is second nature to me. I also know of our own Colovian history, and we've always been ones eager to live in peace with others. It's not like your people..._our_ people, to be so filled with blind hate."

Crixus sighed as he walked over to his horse. Marcurio followed him but said nothing as Crixus mounted the horse and set out for the path ahead. He paused, grunted under his breath, then turned back to Marcurio.

"My step-mother, Sedris Ulver, came to Anvil from Skyrim," he began. "She was a Dunmer who lived in Windhelm. She said that the Nords have no love for anyone or anything that doesn't look like them, that they're all just a bunch of shiftless brigands, drunken, back-stabbing murderers, thugs and bandits. As far as I've seen of them for myself, she was right."

Marcurio did not reply as he made his way to mount up his horse. But he kept Crixus in his gaze. Ever since seeing him come out of the Stormcloak hut in the Rift covered in blood, Marcurio felt that Crixus earned a wary eye.

* * *

The day wore on as the two continued on their way into the Pale. The blizzard did not abate and the going was still very slow. The mid-afternoon slowly wore on until the woods were blanketed in the bleak gray of twilight. Soon night would fall upon the Pale and the risk of dying in the cold, even for one so experienced in traversing cold climes such as Crixus, became greater and greater. Yet Crixus pushed on into the blizzard, confident that he and not Marcurio was right.

As the night started to fall and even the dim light started to go, they heard up ahead on the road the sound of weapons clashing and cries of battle. Crixus and Marcurio urged their horses onward, eager to see what kind of brawl was going on up ahead and if it were not the loyal troops of the Empire engaged in bloody conflict with the rebels. As it was, they saw a lone figure in steel armor fighting off four others at once. Marcurio lobbed a ball of arcane fire at one, catching him square in the chest and sending him down into the snow, at which the lone warrior ran them through.

"I'd rather not get involved in any local brawls," Crixus said, then added. "If we did, we'd never get to Solitude."

"I'm not going to let this person die," Marcurio stated.

"Maybe they want to die," Crixus added. "These Nords have strange traditions, so I've heard. Besides, I don't want to get involved with anyone until we reach Solitude."

"Well, I've gotten us involved," Marcurio replied cryptically. "They'll soon see where that came from."

Crixus rolled his eyes, swore underneath his breath, then pulled out his bow and fitted an arrow into the strings. Despite the numbness in his fingers, he bent the bow back and sent another arrow whizzing through the cold air. Another figure fell and soon Crixus was placing another arrow into the string. But by then, the lone warrior had already hacked the two down, painting the snow red with their blood. Crixus and Marcurio then brought their horses along up to the side of the road where the lone warrior stood. As they approached and the warrior turned, they saw that it was a woman with flaming red hair and red war-paint dragged across her face like dragging fingers.

"That's close enough now," she warned. "There's nothing for you gentlemen here, so you might as well piss off."

"Is that any way to treat your rescuers?" Marcurio asked.

"Rescue?" the woman laughed. "I'm a Nord woman, spell-sword. We don't need no rescuing from nobody."

"Quite a big mouth on this one," Crixus stated with a smirk. "I wonder if it's big enough for my cock."

"Just you try it, Cyrodilian," the woman retorted, blue eyes narrowing at Crixus. "I'll butt-fuck you with the edge of your own sword so hard, you'll never walk again."

"Don't call me Cyrodilian, you Nordic cunt!" Crixus replied.

"I'll call you what I want, milk-drinker!"

"Stupid fucking Nords," Crixus said, turning to Marcurio. "We should have left her to die, the way she treats her betters."

"You killed one, Imperial, just one!" the woman stated, holding up her fore-finger. "I killed two here, at least three others back in Frostmere Crypt just off the road a pace. I can easily take you and your lover here."

"We're not lovers," Marcurio replied.

"Is that so?" the woman asked. "Ain't you wizards into little boys anyhow? It would make sense that you'd prefer each other's company to that of a real woman. Now I've said it once, move along. I ain't saying it again!"

"Before we go," Marcurio spoke up. "May I ask what you were doing fighting them? Are you a sell-sword?"

"I was in their gang," she said. "Until the ring-leader's sword disappeared and they blamed me for it. Now hurry along or I'm gonna start taking off heads!"

"I don't think you will," Crixus replied.

"And why not, Imperial?" she asked.

"I know a thing or two about bandits," he began. "Like the Stormcloaks, they'll only attack the unarmed. Well..." He drew out his short sword. "We _are_ armed."

"So am I," she replied, drawing out her sword.

"But I doubt you'll go up against two of us," Crixus continued. "One of us a mage. Surely you're not that stupid, are you?"

"I can take you both on, even with your fancy magic," she retorted. "Now piss off or you'll see the truth of my words!"

"Well, seeing as how we saved your ungrateful arse," Crixus continued. "It seems that you should owe us something in return."

"I don't owe you nothing!"

"How about a bribe, huh?" Crixus asked. "Say, a hundred drakes."

"Crixus, what are you doing?" Marcurio hissed.

"Maybe I'm interested," the woman stated, eying Crixus warily. "Okay, hand it over."

Crixus took the bag that Brynjolf had given him and threw it at the bandit, who caught it just as it was flying towards her. Crixus noted that she had keen eyes, perhaps even as good as his own. He'd have to see if she were any good with a bow.

"So what do you want?" she asked.

"Where are we?" Crixus asked.

She laughed. "Lost, are you?"

"It was his fault," Marcurio stated, pointing to Crixus. "He wanted to go to Solitude by way of the Pale."

"Shut up!" Crixus said through clenched teeth. "It's _your_ fault!"

"Why?" Marcurio asked. "I was trying to persuade you otherwise."

"You, shut it!" Crixus snapped, then turned to the woman. "So? Where are we?"

"Just a short stroll from Frostmere Crypt," she answered with a smile. "And if you boys are headed to Solitude, then it seems that the spell-sword is right. You're far out of your way."

"Told you." added Marcurio in an aside to Crixus.

"Fuck you," Crixus replied under his breath.

"The quickest way to Solitude," she continued. "Is to go back the way you came and go west as far as Dragon Bridge, then turn east onto the road that takes you right up to the gates. Honestly, who was the fool who decided to go through the Pale?"

"It was him," both Crixus and Marcurio said, pointing to each other.

"Fuck off, I didn't say that!" Marcurio retorted. "You were adamant about going this way!"

"You said it was quicker!" Crixus retorted.

"You fucking liar!" Marcurio shouted. "You were the one afraid to go near any hold because of the Thalmor!"

"Stormcloaks, are you?" she asked. "On the run from the high elf persecutors?"

"I am a true and loyal son of the Empire!" Crixus replied proudly.

"And I don't give a shit," said the woman. "Imperial pockets are just as easy to pick as Stormcloak ones. Now if you boys want to be on your way..."

"Since you seem to know so much about the lay of the land," Crixus stated with an offended air. "Why don't you come with us as a guide?"

The woman laughed. "I don't think you have enough coin for that."

Crixus laughed and procured his purse, which he threw at the woman. Marcurio looked at him disapprovingly, but Crixus said nothing. The woman picked it up, weighed it in her hands, then laughed again.

"You must be desperate indeed," she said at last. "Throwing all your gold at bandits along your way."

"Not desperate, just cautious," Crixus returned.

"Of what, Thalmor?" the woman asked. "There's no reason to be, at least until you get to Haafingar Hold. See, that's where their headquarters are, in a building up in the mountains. They don't have no presence in Whiterun, thanks to Balgruuf."

"Jarl Balgruuf?"

"The same," she continued. "But look, it's getting dark and maybe we should finish this conversation somewhere where we won't freeze our asses off in the cold. Come with me."

The bandit led Crixus and Marcurio up the snowy slopes of the mountain to their left and into what appeared to be the remains of an old Nordic crypt. There was an over-hung roof with stone pillars built over it which led to an old door in the side of the stone wall of the crypt. But at the entrance of the door, safely protected from the winds by the stone walls on either side of the entrance, was a camp-fire. Here there lay the bodies of a Bosmer, a Nord and a Khajiit. The bandit pushed them aside to give room for Crixus and Marcurio's horses, then tended the fire as they gathered around it for warmth.

"Are you sure you two ain't lovers?" the bandit asked.

"No, why do you say that?" Crixus asked.

"You sure do bicker like lovers do betimes," she replied.

"It's just because he was wrong and I was right," Crixus stated with a grin on his face.

"Now you sound like a child," she laughed. "And you don't got enough gold in that bag of yours to hire me as your mama."

"Don't you dare say a single word about my mother!" Crixus roared.

"Touchy subject, I see," the woman laughed. "Still, I can always kick your asses into the cold if you try anything."

"Can we please get back to Whiterun?" Marcurio asked. "I mean, in the conversation."

"What, Balgruuf?" she asked. "Oh, he's a fine piece of work. Lets the people worship Talos unmolested by the Thalmor, but he's already in the pocket of the Empire. Got an Imperial steward, an Imperial captain of the guards, his brother supports the Empire openly, and its home to Clan Battle-Born, the Nord clan who sold itself out to the Empire, so they say."

"Whatever they did," Crixus stated. "It was worth it."

"Still, there ain't no Thalmor there, nor Stormcloak supporters, unless you count Clan Grey-Mane. But as I said, you've more concern of running into the Thalmor once you're in Haafingar."

"I don't believe you," Crixus stated flatly.

"Well, you can believe whatever you like," said the woman. "The truth is the truth."

"I don't believe," Crixus replied. "That the Empire would allow the Thalmor to have so much control over their territory."

"_You_ were the one who said Thalmor were in the Imperial City," Marcurio added.

"I did-fucking-not!" Crixus replied, turning to Marcurio. He quickly turned back to the bandit. "They're only in Skyrim for one fucking reason: Ulfric Storm-cunt decided to declare his little war, starting with Markarth. They're only here to make sure the Nords stop this Talos nonsense: there'd be no point in having them roam in Haafingar as it's law-abiding."

The bandit laughed, then turned to Marcurio. "Is he like this all the time?"

"I barely know him," he replied coldly.

The bandit turned to Crixus. "Alright, I'll go with you."

"I didn't ask for that," Crixus replied.

"I know," she replied. "But you need someone to go with you, or you'd run into some Falmer-infested den, thinking it was the way to Solitude. But I ain't your mama, just so you know. I won't nurse you or feed you or fight your battles for you: that you gotta do on your own."

"I don't want another companion," Crixus commented.

"And I don't particularly want to be _your_ companion," she retorted. "But you've paid me so well and you're so obviously dumb, I feel that it would be too cruel to let you go off by yourselves. Don't worry, I'll drop you off at Morthal."

"What's Morthal?" Crixus asked.

"The nearest town," she added. "Don't worry, they're friends of the Empire there and you won't find any Thalmor either. Nobody really gives a shit about Morthal, since it's got nothing. Just marshes and mud-crabs. Though I've heard one of you magic-types moved there recently, and it's caused quite a stir. Maybe you would be interested in that, though."

"Why?" Marcurio asked. "Because I'm a wizard?"

"Yeah, right?" Marcurio rolled his eyes while Crixus chuckled. "Anyhow, find yourselves a bed-roll and bundle up. You picked the worst possible place to camp in: it's colder than Shor's balls in the Pale, and it's always this cold, even in summer. Honestly, who would think that going this way would be safer than going through Whiterun?"

"He would," Marcurio stated. "He was afraid that there would be unfriendly eyes in Whiterun."

"No need to worry," she replied. "The plains see many people about, they'd hardly give you any notice. Especially dressed like travelers and not in Legion armor and clothes. Besides, you can't use the Thalmor as an excuse."

"Oh yeah?" Crixus asked. "And why is that?"

"You seem so damn double-minded about them," she reasoned. "On one hand you're afraid to cross the hold because they might see you but then on the other hand you don't think that they are as deeply entrenched as they are. You know, they've had twenty years since the Markarth Incident."

"No one's that deeply intrenched," Crixus said. "Somebody would have noticed them doing this, somebody would have stopped them. It's not like they're the Blades or the Dark Brotherhood, who actually _are_ that deeply intrenched."

The woman laughed. "Are you really that naive? If memory serves, the Blades were all killed by the Dominion, to whom them Thalmor belong. If your secret and deeply intrenched Blades could be wiped out that easily, think of how deep the Thalmor are dug in to have caused that to happen."

"I don't believe all the Blades were killed," Crixus said stubbornly. "And I don't believe the Thalmor have as much power as you ascribe to them."

"And I believe there's only one moon in our night sky," said the bandit. "Don't make it any more true than what you said. Now hurry and get some sleep. You're gonna need it for the road ahead."

Crixus curled up underneath his blanket while Marcurio eyed both the Nord bandit woman and Crixus with suspicion. On the one hand, he was worried about being robbed in the middle of the night by her. But on the other hand, he was starting to worry about whether or not he should remain in Crixus' company.

* * *

**(AN: No author's note at the end because nothing to comment on in this chapter, as well as a great lack of reviews.)**


	7. The Prophetess

**(AN: Here we are, all caught up to as far as I had written in this story. Everything after this chapter will be new and you will see it as soon as it is published.)**

**(If you've read the other stories [lol, like anybody's reading this story], you may ask why have what happens in _this_ chapter. Well, you'll see eventually.)**

* * *

**The Prophetess**

When the morning rose, Crixus and Marcurio awoke, half-expecting to find themselves out in the cold with their horses gone and all their clothes and gear stolen. To their surprise and relief, they were back in the entrance of the Nordic ruin with the bandit woman examining their camp-site.

"What is it now, you big, fat, ugly Nord cow?" Crixus groaned.

"We're heading out as soon as you and your lover are awake," the woman stated.

"He's not my lover, b*tch," Crixus retorted.

"Well, if you keep calling me b*tch," she replied. "Then I'll keep calling you two lovers."

"Well what the fuck do I call you then, snow back?" Crixus asked.

"Not that either!" she retorted.

"Uh, by the cock of Molag Bal, you're picky!"

"Call me by my right name, ass-hole," she snapped.

"And what is that?"

"Eisa," she replied.

"Call me Crixus," he stated.

"Marcurio."

"Are you two ready to go yet?" Eisa asked. "I'm not going to wait for you."

Crixus and Marcurio arose and made a search of their person. Nothing, it seemed, had been taken from them during the night: to the great relief of both of them. Their horses, also, were still alive and present. While they were preparing to remount, Eisa took Crixus' horse and mounted up on it.

"Wait a minute, Nord," Crixus interjected. "That's my horse!"

"So?" she returned.

"Find your own!"

"Do you expect me to lead you to Morthal on foot?" she asked. "You and your lover can share that horse."

"We're not lovers," Marcurio replied, mounting up on his horse and giving Crixus a hand up onto the back.

"From what you two were saying last night," Eisa retorted. "It seems not."

Once they were on horse-back, Eisa began leading them north and west, towards the northernmost arm of the mountain-side. From here they could see the vast, bleak expanse of the Pale stretching out before them to their right. There were several large hills here and there, and a few ice-clad bronzen towers, doubtless the halls of the long lost Dwemer or Dwarves in the colloquial tongue, but nothing of any great value farther north.

* * *

For an hour or more they galloped on, following Eisa's guidance. They spoke little to each other, especially Crixus and Marcurio. The spell-sword was starting to doubt Crixus' sincerity based on how he had seemingly flip-flopped and told Eisa a lie concerning who had decided to go this way. There was, in Marcurio's mind, no shame in being wrong. They were both still alive and little, if any, harm had actually been done.

"We'll be there shortly," Eisa called back. "The snow's getting thinner and I can smell the foul stench of the bogs of Hjaalmarch on the wind. We should be there by the afternoon."

"Good," Marcurio stated. "This whole trip through the Pale was a bad idea."

"_Your_ bad idea, I might add," Crixus said from behind Marcurio.

"It was obviously _your_ idea," Eisa stated.

"That's not true," Crixus retorted. "It was his idea."

"Then why are you so adamant in saying that it wasn't _your_ idea?" Eisa asked. "Because it was a bad idea? Because you don't want to be wrong?"

"A Colovian is never wrong," Crixus stated. "Besides, he told me that it would be better to go that way. Keep me out of unfriendly eyes."

Eisa laughed. "Which unfriendly eyes? A few farmers on the northern marches of Whiterun? They probably don't even care about the war, they just want to be left alone."

"It doesn't matter if they're unaffiliated or not," Crixus retorted. "They'd have seen us, noticed my armor and started wagging their tongues at the nearest tavern. Somebody would have heard it."

"What armor?" Eisa asked. "You dress like a traveler, not a soldier. There are plenty of adventurers wandering Skyrim these days. Do you really think anybody would give a shit about just another adventurer crossing through Skyrim? Besides, unless you plan on riding up to every Nord and staring them in the face, nobody would notice you from the other side of a farm."

"There are roads on the plains of Whiterun," Crixus retorted. "Some highway patrols or town guards would have seen us and sent word back to their earl or count or whatever idiot rules in Skyrim these days."

"Jarls have more important things to do," Eisa returned. "Than harass every new adventurer crossing through their borders."

"Bull-shite," Crixus retorted. "People under their service would be interested."

"You're so strange, you know," Eisa stated. "You sound like a paranoid child, yet you're confident enough that there aren't Thalmor deeply entrenched throughout Skyrim."

"I never said that!" Crixus retorted.

"Yes you did, I heard you say it!"

"You heard wrong."

"Are you calling me a liar?" she challenged.

"Did I stutter?" Crixus asked. "Besides, this whole argument is pointless."

"Why?" Eisa asked. "Because I'm right and you know it?"

"Fuck you!" Crixus retorted. "Marcurio's plan would have worked."

"Would you stop bringing me into this?" Marcurio whispered.

"And how would it have worked, hmm?" Eisa asked. "Walk aimlessly into the frozen heights of the Pale, where the cold Atmoran winds blow endlessly and there is snow even in summer, and then what? Swim the Haafingar bay at its widest point? Find a path through the ever-shifting, pathless marshes of Hjaalmarch?"

"Stupid Nord," Crixus groaned, rolling his eyes.

"You know nothing of this land, Colovian!" Eisa retorted.

"Do I look like I give a shite?" Crixus asked. "Look, I am in charge here, I do things according to my reason and I don't need any mead-drinking, flame-headed, ignorant snow-back cow telling me I know nothing!"

"Then why don't I leave you to your folly, hmm?" Eisa retorted. "I look forward to seeing your bones bleaching in the marshes within ten days time."

"Look, why don't we take her advice?" Marcurio asked. "There's no guarantee that there's a path through the marshes, and even if we do find a path, what do we do once we've reached the bay?"

"I don't pay you to argue, Marcurio," Crixus groaned.

"You don't pay me at all right now," retorted the mage. "I'm here of my own free will and can go of my own free will if you keep acting like a House Redoran Dunmer! Still, what do you expect to find on the other side of the marshes? I don't there are any boats on the southern shore, and the only way we could reach the other side would be to pass through the southern end of the marshes, through Morthal."

"Besides," Eisa interjected. "If you're afraid about the rebels, Morthal is a loyalist hold."

Crixus groaned. "I still say this is a bad idea. I'd rather avoid sight all together than risk being spotted by some Stormcloak half-wit or the Thalmor."

"I'm not going to take you by any main roads, if that's what you're afraid of," Eisa replied. "Now, are you done whining like an old married couple? Can we get underway already?"

* * *

By the time they had stopped arguing, they had left Frostmere Crypt behind and were making their way south-westward along the northern face of the mountains. At first their eyes saw nothing but fields of snow and tall pine trees blanketed in white frost. Slowly the snow drifts began to grow shallow and the trees greener. The snow finally faded all together and the ground became cold and soggy. The tall, majestic pines also faded, replaced by stunted trees with naked branches. Some of them had buds on their branches, but the majority of the trees were bare and grim. As they passed into the dreary land, the smell of fens began to fill their nostrils. Here and there they saw pools of water standing stagnant about the trunks of the trees. Some of the pools were worbling with life, while yet others were eerily still.

While riding around the pools, Eisa instructed them to steer their horses clear of any large rocks near the edges of the pools. She said that these were the tell-tale signs of mud-crabs, a creature native to all the water-ways of Tamriel, including marshes.

"We have mud-crabs in Cyrodiil," Crixus stated. "And I remember some in the pools outside of Mournhold in Morrowind."

"I reckon they're not nearly half as large," Eisa retorted. "As the ones we have here. The mud-crabs of Skyrim'll wait until you've walked right over them, thinking they're nothing more than a rock, then they'll rise up out of the silt and take a jab at your knees. Spook the horses something fierce."

They rode on through the brown-gray, grim swamp-lands, keeping away from the stagnant pools, until by and by they could hear, above the gurgle of the swamp, the distant din of a town. Thither Eisa led them, though Crixus looked about the trees, still wary of being followed. Nothing was present, but still he refused to believe that going into Morthal could be this easy.

They passed through the trees and saw a large lake laying out before them with several earthen jetties spreading across the lake. Upon this lake was built a town of wood, which, in Crixus' estimation, was even more run-down and poor than Bruma or Mournhold. Despite the time of day, the town was thickly clad in mist: to Crixus, it gave the impression that the town was hiding something. As they rode into the main-street of the town, he saw a group of townsfolk standing before a tall stave-style structure. From their voices, Crixus discerned that they were not happy. At the front of the tall structure, standing before the door, was a man in rich clothing.

"Bring that conjurer out here to justice!" one cried.

"We don' need their kind here!" another shouted.

"He's a menace!" another shouted. "A child molester and a violator of our ancestors!"

"Please, enough already!" another voice, one that was more even-toned and level-headed than the others, spoke up. "I've told the Jarl of your concerns. She'll look after you."

"Look after us?" one of the towns-people retorted. "She consorts with them wizard types! She's one of 'em herself!"

"How are we supposed to feel safe in our own homes?"

"We don' need no wizards in our midst!" shouted another.

"Ain' we got enough problems on our own?"

"Please, return to your homes!" the voice of reason replied.

"Not till we know what the Jarl is gonna do about this!"

"Bah, we're wastin' our time," one of the other townsfolk said.

"Go home, then, Jorgen!" said the one standing before the door. "By the shortest way! And don't go throwin' stones at Falion's house!"

"Agh, go suck the Jarl's dick, Aslfur!" the one called Jorgen retorted. "Gods know _you_ ain't got one!"

As the crowds began to disperse, Crixus looked at each of those who departed, then looked over his shoulder at Marcurio.

"Just as I suspected," he muttered. "Nothing but a bunch of ignorant, superstitious, oafish, barbarous drunks."

"Aren't you and I drunks also?" asked Marcurio.

"Fuck you. There's a difference between civilized drinking, what we do, and...this."

"Why does it matter how one drinks?" Eisa asked.

Crixus brought the horse up alongside the man Aslfur, who was making his way back into the large wooden structure as the crowds were parting.

"Come to gawk and threaten us, have you?" he asked.

"No," Crixus said. "I'm with the Imperial Legion."

"Finally!" Aslfur exclaimed. "You've come to save us from the rebels!"

"I'm on my way to Solitude to do just that," Crixus replied.

"Gods be praised!" Aslfur praised. "Please, come inside! I'm sure the Jarl will be most pleased to welcome you to our humble hall."

"We have no time to waste," Crixus said.

"Please," Aslfur returned. "The Jarl would be most appreciative of those who come to help the people of Morthal."

"I say let's take advantage of their hospitality," Marcurio spoke up. "How many times does a Jarl invite you to spend the night in his long-house?"

"_Her_ long-house," Eisa corrected. "Idgrod Ravencrone is a woman."

"Then what was that remark about her having a..." Marcurio began.

"Please, forgive the simple townspeople," said Aslfur. "They do not know. But please, the Jarl would be most appreciative to have you stay at her hall."

"I say let's take them up on that," Eisa added.

Crixus looked about, making sure there were no suspicious characters about, then turned back to Aslfur. "I suppose we can accept your offer."

"Then, in the name of Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone," Aslfur announced. "Let me be the first to welcome you to Highmoon Hall."

* * *

Aslfur opened the doors of the hall, leading them into a wide, high-roofed hall with a large spit in the center of the room, on which burned a warm fire. They dismounted their horses and Aslfur had one of the guards inside the hall send the horses to the Jarl's stables. Here in the warmth of the hall, Crixus, Marcurio and Eisa were able to relax for a moment from the cold and hard journey to Solitude. Once Aslfur had secured their horses, he led them to the Jarl's throne at the far end of the hall. Sitting upon the throne was an old woman dressed in rich clothes - at least, Crixus mused, rich for Skyrim. Her hair, which must have been dark in her youth, was mostly grey with a few strands of black hair still clinging onto the beauty of youth. As they approached the throne, Crixus noticed that she seemed very preoccupied with something, though she seemed to be looking at the floor.

"My Jarl!" Aslfur announced. His voice seemed to rouse her from her stupor and she lifted up her head to the man who spoke.

"My dear, there's no need to stand on ceremony here," she greeted with a smile. "We're all family."

"You are still Jarl, love," he returned. "May I present you with these fine people who have come to help us in the name of the Empire. They are..."

"Flavius Crixus," replied the Colovian Legionnaire.

"Marcurio," the spell-sword said cryptically.

"Eisa Blackthorn."

"Friends of the Empire," said Idgrod. "Are welcomed in Morthal. I apologize if the local reception was less than warm. The people of Morthal are not very trusting of those they do not understand, of this I know too well."

"I had hoped," Aslfur continued. "That we could welcome these fine guests into our hall, that they stay the night and rest from their long journey to Solitude."

"Of course," replied Idgrod. "I'm sure you'll see to their comfort. For the moment, however, I would like to speak to Master Crixus here."

Aslfur turned to Marcurio and Eisa and began leading them away from the throne room when a young boy of roughly seven or eight years old ran into the hall and stood before Crixus.

"You new in town?" he asked him. "You different than everyone else in Morthal...or even in all of Skyrim! You with the Empire? You gunna show them rebels what for?"

"Joric, be quiet!" Idgrod exclaimed. "Where is your sister?"

"I'm sorry, mama!" the boy returned.

At that moment, a young woman entered into the hall, chasing after the young boy. Crixus saw that she looked very Colovian, save for her pale skin. As she passed by Crixus, she averted her eyes.

"Please forgive me, stranger," she apologized. "Joric doesn't mean to be a bother, it's...well...it's complicated."

"No no, no need to worry," said Crixus, eying the young woman up and down. She seemed very beautiful and, from the dark hair she wore, seemed very much like her mother. Even though covered up by a simple dress and a warm shawl, she seemed very nubile and physically fit.

"Please, Idgrod," said the old Jarl. "Take Joric away for a while. I must be undisturbed with this man."

"Yes, mother," the younger Idgrod replied, leading the young child out of the main hall. While they were leaving, Crixus, looking after her, noticed her casting her eyes over her shoulder at him and smiling.

"Do you fancy my daughter, Servius?" asked the old woman. Crixus turned around, surprised to hear the old Nordic Jarl speak his right first name.

"Oh, are you surprised at that?" Idgrod the Elder asked. "Don't they have seers and prophetesses in Cyrodiil?"

"I never expected it among the Nords of Skyrim," Crixus returned.

"Oh, of course, I know," Idgrod groaned. "It's all because of Winterhold. You know, according to our traditions, there were great sorcerers of the Nord people in our histories. Even Felldir the Old was a sorcerer. But people these days are afraid of anyone not like themselves."

"What happened at Winterhold?" asked Crixus.

"The Red Mountain happened, and nothing else!" Idgrod stated flatly, sounding more than a little upset. "Don't you believe none of those fairy tales about sorcerers being responsible for it." She groaned, resting her hand against her temples. When she noticed Crixus looking at her, she sighed. "Oh, forgive me. The pressures and politics of jarldom are taxing. Oh, how I wish I could retire to a nice cozy tower somewhere and spend my days and nights gazing up at the stars, musing on the gift of prophecy and the flow of past into present and what makes the world move. Fate has made me Jarl, unfortunately."

"And you support the Empire?" Crixus asked.

"I support the people of Morthal," she returned. "But, yes, we are loyalists." She looked into Crixus' eyes. "And there are no Thalmor here in this city. You will be safe here."

* * *

Idgrod Ravencrone then called her husband Aslfur and told him to tell her daughter Idgrod the Younger to prepare a meal for Crixus and his guests. They did not have to wait long for the Jarl's servant and husband, as well as her housecarls Gorm and Valdimar, soon brought in the table for the feast and they were soon seated. Wine and beer were being poured by Idgrod the Younger, who could not keep her eyes gazing periodically at Crixus.

"So, you're with the Imperial Legion?" she asked Crixus.

"Yes, that's about right," he replied with a smirk. "I'm on my way to Solitude now."

"By way of Morthal?" she asked. "It's a good thing, for both of us, that you came this way."

"Oh?" Crixus asked, giving her a smile that sent her blushing. "Why is that?"

"We don't get many visitors in Morthal," Idgrod the Younger returned. "Also, if you were planning on going through Whiterun, it's not the best choice, especially for those who support the Empire. Rumor has it there are Redguards in Whiterun."

"What do you have against Redguards, eh?" Crixus asked.

"Nothing personally," young Idgrod returned. "It's just that these are Alik'r. They're some of the loudest voices in Hammerfell against the Empire, so the rumors say." _And on the payroll of the Aldmeri Dominion no less_, Crixus mused.

Casting an eye towards Marcurio and Eisa, Crixus gave them a smug, winning smile that said "I told you so." Marcurio rolled his eyes and Eisa, who was too busy drinking from her tankard, ignored him all together.

Once all was set, the Jarl and her family sat down to eat with their guests. First the Jarl and her family were served and then the guests and finally the housecarls and the servants. There was plenty of food on the table: beef and vegetable soup, roasted pork, bread, cheese and plenty of wine and beer. The guests ate and did not turn down a second helping, though Crixus was examining those around him, especially the Nords.

"Do you people _only_ drink beer?" he asked.

"What's the matter, outlander?" the large Nord housecarl Valdimar asked. "Mead too strong for you? Perhaps I can find a wet nurse to give you some milk, if that's more to your liking."

"Like your mother?" Crixus asked.

"How _dare_ you insult my mother!" Valdimar shouted.

"Calm yourself, Valdimar," Jarl Idgrod reprimanded her housecarl.

"But you heard him say it!" Valdimar roared.

"What?" Crixus asked. "I said nothing."

"Don't lie, you Imperial scum!" Valdimar roared. "I heard it from your own mouth and so did everyone at this table! They will tell that my words are true."

"It is not polite to insult our guests, Valdimar," Idgrod reminded her housecarl.

"It was he who did the insultin', my Jarl, not I!" Valdimar retorted.

"I heard no insult," said Jarl Idgrod plainly. "Did you hear any insults, dear Aslfur?" Her husband shook his head. She then turned to Valdimar. "You will apologize to our guest."

Valdimar delivered an unconvincing "My apologies, stranger", then sat down to his food while Crixus flashed the large bald Nord a smug grin. Uneasy silence followed for a minute, broken by the loud chewing of the young boy Joric.

"Tell me something, good sir," Jarl Ravencrone spoke, her old eyes on Crixus. "You're with the Empire, is that not so?"

"Yes, that's true," Crixus returned.

"On your way to Solitude to enlist?" Crixus nodded. "Then I shall insure that you arrive in Solitude swiftly as safely. I will hire a carriage to take you by road to Dragon Bridge and then to the city itself, with an armed escort..."

"Uh, please," Crixus interjected. "We don't want to draw any attention to our approach. We will not go by way of Dragon Bridge."

"But there is no road to Solitude by the north-west way," the old woman stated, causing Crixus to drop the knife he was using to cut into the mammoth steak upon his plate.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Is that not your plan?" she asked. "To go to Solitude by walking north-west of this place?"

"That's madness!" Marcurio interjected. "There is no road north-west of town. One could get lost in the swamps of Hjaalmarch for days on end and never find the way out."

"Since everyone seems to already know my plans," Crixus strained through clenched teeth. "Then perhaps I should tell you that there _is_ a way to Solitude from the north-west. My map says that the East Empire Trading Company has an anchorage below the city of Solitude. There should be no problem finding passage across the Karth River."

"But the Karth River is wide this far north-east," Eisa stated. "And there ain't no portage on this side. You'd have to swim through freezing waters and, of course, risk getting torn to shreds by slaughter-fish."

"I've faced worse things than a few slaughter-fish, girl," Crixus returned.

"Don't call me a girl!" Eisa demanded.

"Please!" Aslfur interceded, rising from his seat to Jarl Ravencrone's right. "Let there be peace in the hall tonight."

"Just don't be questioning my plans," Crixus groaned. "Now, where are we going to sleep? I'm rather put off by all of this foreshadowing."

"Our apologies," Idgrod Ravencrone the elder placated, nodding her head regally. "I will prepare a bed for you by the hearth. It is the warmest part of the hall during the night. If you would care, I can have some supplies purchased for you and your..."

"No!" Crixus shook his head. "Just let us be on our way tomorrow without any more delays."

* * *

The dinner concluded in silence, after which Jarl Idgrod and Aslfur departed to their rooms, with Joric and the younger Idgrod following them behind. The servants cleared away the tables and removed them while the housecarls took their place at the doors of the Jarl's room. Bed-rolls and blankets were then laid out for the three of them and they quickly passed into slumber. Eisa's dreams were filled with just retribution against her treacherous bandit comrades. Marcurio had gold, wine and women flowing through his hands.

Crixus, meanwhile, dreamed of the battles he had fought during the Great War. The Siege of Bravil, the second engagement after the Siege of Leyawiin, was one in which he had fought. Dominion ships clashed with the Imperial navy, sending smaller boats that collided with the Imperial caravels and burst into gouts of magical fire that no amount of water could put out: he could still hear the screams of the soldiers as they were being burned alive.

On the shore, the main Dominion army plowed through the Imperial Legions. Those Nords in the Legion fought on with unrelenting might and never-ending resolve, always being the last to quit the field. That had been his first encounter with them, and, as Sedris had said, they seemed very stupid indeed. Then he found himself wading through the Dominion forces, a boy of barely sixteen. An officer, clad in green malachite armor that glistened like glass, strode towards him, flame conjured in one hand as the other one reached out for his throat. In one swift move, he seized the hand and put his sword at the officer's throat, only to realize that he had been dreaming. Kneeling before him was Idgrod Ravencrone the younger, a candle in one hand with the other held out toward his face, now clenched tightly in his left hand as his right held a knife to his throat.

"You shouldn't be here, girl," he muttered at the young Nord woman. "I could have killed you or raped you."

"I stopped being a woman last winter," the young Idgrod replied. "And I know you wouldn't do either of those things to me."

"Oh yeah?" Crixus asked, lifting his eyebrow. "It's been three days since I've last bedded a woman. Maybe my loins are already burning?"

"As much as you want to deny it, Servius Crixus," Idgrod continued. "You _are_ a good man."

Crixus sighed, letting go of her hand and moving the knife from her throat. "Any goodness in me died out during the War. Now go back to bed."

"I couldn't sleep," young Idgrod replied. "There was something I had to get off my chest."

"Your dress?" Crixus snickered.

"Dreams," she returned. "About you. You see, I too have my mother's gift. Though it is not as strong as it should be, ever since you arrived, I find myself seeing clearer than ever before."

"More prophetical bull-shite?" Crixus asked. "Look, I don't believe in gods or prophecy, so you're wasting your time."

"That is not true," Idgrod returned. "Though you may tell people otherwise, deep down inside, you _know_ the truth, don't you? The Divines are real, and they love you."

Crixus did not reply immediately. Instead he turned towards the young woman, her pale, oval face glowing in the flickering light of her candle.

"Alright then," he sighed at last. "So what do you see?"

"There is sorrow in your past," she began, then hesitated as her countenance fell. "And...darkness in your future. But though the road darkens, it is what lies ahead that is the greatest reward."

"And what's that?" Crixus asked with a disinterested chuckle. "Drakes? Wine? Women of the night?"

"Why do you doubt my words?" she replied, her grim face falling to sad disbelief.

"Because these prophecies are always so damn vague," Crixus groaned. "And besides, there's usually always a rational explanation behind everything, even these so-called visitations from the Divines. I find it rather funny that ignorant people run off with any old thing that appears just to confirm their blind faith without informing themselves of the facts."

"But all our fates are in the hands of the Eight," Idgrod the younger returned. "Why do you refuse what you know to be true in your heart?"

Crixus groaned. "Just go to bed. If you don't want me to give you a good tumble, then you're of no use to me."

"But I am, Servius," Idgrod replied. "I have seen your heart and it saddens me to see what you have become."

"I don't need your pity," Crixus groaned as he rolled over on his bed-roll.

"Then accept my friendship," she continued. "I can prove to be very useful."

Crixus groaned. "Whatever lets me go to sleep sooner."

Idgrod smiled, rueful at Crixus' attitude but yet full of hope. He had not turned away her offer, despite his words. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. She walked back towards the Jarl's bed-room, with Crixus gazing after her, trying to catch a glimpse of the silhouette her shapely hips in the light of the candle. As she reached the door, Eirik heard her whisper: "Goodnight, Servius. May the gods soften your heart." Crixus groaned, reminding himself to spend no more time in Morthal tomorrow than was absolutely needful as he dozed off to sleep again.

* * *

**(AN: The last bit of this chapter was written on the fly, but you are now caught up and I have a lot of work to do with the next chapter. I wonder how you found this one: lots of stuff happening here, like young children of Skyrim being annoying, an expounding of Idgrod the Younger's role, especially in Crixus' life, as well as some more insight onto himself and his past. Perhaps things will be better later on. Oh well.)**


	8. In the Court of Elisif

**(AN: -sigh- my brother [no, it's not complaining] and i finally came to a consensus about some things in this story that were not completely ridiculous. With that in mind, i give you this brand new chapter, with a title inspired by the _Turisas_ song "In the Court of Jarisleif" and BIG inspiration from another song by the same band, "Miklagard Overture." I also realized that since this is chronologically the first story in my "The Dragon" fanon based on time setting, this is the first time that Solitude gets formally introduced since both of my stories kind of just brushed it aside.)**

**(Enjoy!)**

* * *

**In the Court of Elisif**

In the morning, the three of them went their separate ways. Eisa returned to her camp in the east, taking Crixus' horse with her, and Crixus and Marcurio were forced to share a horse and go on their way. As soon as they left the outskirts of the town, Marcurio, who had the reins of the horse, turned south-west rather than north-west.

"What are you doing?" Crixus asked. "You're going the wrong way!"

"I'm in charge of the horse," Marcurio stated. "And I say we go by the main road. We're already in loyalist territory, there's no reason to fear."

"You'll endanger us all with this!" Crixus stated. "It's fool-hardy! We should just go north-west through the marshes. No one will see us there!"

"I don't like the idea of wading through a swamp, if that's all the same to you," Marcurio returned. "Especially carrying this horse and your complaining arse along the way."

"I'm warning you, Marcurio..."

"What?" he asked, grinning. "I'm not yours to punish, I'm only a mercenary. I'm free to leave if I desire, which I just might do."

"What?" Crixus asked.

"You heard me," Marcurio returned. "I'm paid to fight, but not to put up with your bull-shite as you posture before Nord women, trying to make yourself appear always in the right."

"You know I meant nothing by it," Crixus replied.

"Did you?" Marcurio asked. "You know, I'm having a hard time picturing that, especially when you kept saying 'Fuck you, fuck you' after every time you were proven wrong."

"I didn't mean a word of it," Crixus retorted. "Besides, it doesn't matter. _I_ was proven right in the end."

"But I won't stand for abuse," Marcurio returned. "There are better customers out there in Skyrim's needy folk, eager to hire a sorcerer mercenary."

"So then you hate me, is that it?"

"I don't hate you," Marcurio scoffed. "I barely even _know_ you! I just don't like being around an arse-hole who can't admit that he's wrong."

"But, see, I _wasn't_ wrong," Crixus added.

"That!" Marcurio stated. "Exactly that!"

Crixus sighed. "Look, whatever you want, I'll give it to you."

"How's that? You gave our last coin to Eisa."

"I'm bound to be raking in more drakes shortly," Crixus returned. "Perhaps I'll let you have a cut of that, eh? Think about it: all the drink and well-endowed women your heart could desire."

Marcurio sighed. "Fine. I'll take you as far as Solitude. I won't pass up a chance to enjoy some good strong drink at the Four Shields Tavern in Dragon Bridge, or the Winking Skeever in the city itself. But after that, you're on your own."

Crixus sighed. "Is that it, then? You never want to speak to me again after Solitude?"

"Until I see that money you promised," Marcurio retorted. "We go our separate ways."

* * *

Following the road, Crixus and Marcurio made excellent time, arriving in Dragon Bridge at nightfall. The Four Shields Tavern was indeed to Marcurio's liking, but Crixus, meanwhile, seemed to find drink beyond him as he gazed grimly into his cup.

"What's wrong, Crixus?" Marcurio asked. "One would think you're on your way to your tomb rather than in a lively tavern."

Crixus sighed. "I was asking around at the bar. The inn-keeper Faida said something about the Penitus Oculatus having a post here. It makes me wonder."

"What's that?"

"They have good reason to be in Skyrim," Crixus began. "You don't send the Emperor's personal group of spies, assassins and guards into a remote province like Skyrim for nothing." Crixus picked up his cup and examined the golden-brown mead within it. "I wonder if he's here."

"Who?" Marcurio asked.

"Any of my cousins," Crixus replied. "Last time I heard, one of them joined the Penitus Oculatus. Ah, probably an old man's futile dreams. He's probably guarding the Emperor or some Elder Council toady back in Cyrodiil."

"You're not that old," Marcurio returned.

"Heh, you'd be surprised," Crixus stated.

"Well, I mean, you don't look much older than I am," Marcurio commented. "And I'm twenty-nine."

"I pass your count by sixteen years," Crixus smirked.

"Forty-five?" Marcurio exclaimed. "Gods, you look remarkably well preserved for your age."

"Everyone in Mournhold kept saying that," Crixus groaned. "But I don't want to talk about it, alright? There are some things about my life that should remain a secret."

"Whatever you say," Marcurio returned.

"Besides," Crixus continued. "Why do you care? You're leaving."

"Just because you're an arse-hole," Marcurio replied with a smirk. "Doesn't rule out the fact that you're interesting. You're an interesting arse-hole, and most arse-holes aren't that interesting to say the least."

"The very least," Crixus replied.

* * *

In the morning, they saddled up the horse and left Dragon Bridge, Crixus still seeming as close as ever. Their journey now led them up the side of the Kilkreath Mountains, the main mountain range which formed the majority of the hold of Haafingar, where the city of Solitude was located. The road forked just outside of the town, near a small lumber-mill with a few fishermen ships set up near the docks. They chose the one branching to the left, which went uphill. On the right-hand side of the road was a cliff with a steep drop; from here they could see the wide Karth River below, gleaming like a silvery snake in the brown wetlands of Hjaalmarch. To the left another cliff rose up to the mountain heights, which, at this time, were covered in snow. Tall pine-trees stood on either side of the road as they passed up the hill on which the road was built.

About three fourths of the way up the hill, they came to a short wall made of stone with a gate hanging open. There were Hold guards standing by the gates, clad in crimson tabards with the black wolf upon their crimson-painted shields. This, Marcurio told Crixus, was the emblem of Solitude, a city which had once and now served as the capital of Skyrim. Beyond the gate they saw several small merchant stands lining the road. Some of these here were the Bretons, renown for their prowess in commerce, but there were also Nord hunters and fishers, selling their wares - likely poached - for bargain prices, as well as Khajiit, the cat-folk of Elsweyr, from the caravans that traversed Skyrim's wastelands, never welcome in the holds. They were almost there.

Before them rose a great gate-house of stone, topped with crenelated ramparts and built in the old Colovian fashion. Two square towers sat on either side of the gate-house and from their high windows, as well as from the gate, hung great red banners, with a single white stripe running down the middle and emblazoned in the center with a white wolf. This was not merely a keep for the protection of one lord or earl or whatever they called counts in Skyrim - Crixus couldn't recall, nor did he care to remember: this was a fortified city, dwarfed only by the great Imperial City in the center of Lake Rumare. Out of curiosity, Crixus asked Marcurio to take him over to the right-hand side of the road, for he thought he saw the city floating out over the Karth River, now widened below them into a great bay. Going thither, he saw that a great palace with blue roofs was built over a long stone arch stretching over the bay to the north-western edge of the marshes. Thus Servius Crixus saw for the first time Solitude: nothing he had seen thus far prepared him for the grandeur of the greatest of the cities in Skyrim.

The gates were open and they passed into the great city square, filled with people; there were some going about on their daily business, a few chatting up the latest rumors and gossip, a red-scaled Argonian sharing a talk with several shifty looking characters, some kids running through the streets, and more than a few Imperial soldiers off duty on their way to a tall structure to their left, with a sign of a white rat-like creature with a closed eye hanging above the door.

"The Winking Skeever," Marcurio stated, dismounting from the horse. "I'll just pop off here to secure myself a room."

"I might need a room myself," Crixus added, dismounting off the back of the horse.

"No, no," Marcurio shook his head. "You've got your Empire to report to. Duty calls."

"I might yet have a farewell drink with you," Crixus returned.

"Hmm, maybe," Marcurio smirked. "I'll have the horse tied up here at the Skeever if you need it."

Crixus, now on foot, walked further through the streets of Solitude alone. On either side were tall buildings, some of them three stories tall, with shingles that looked like gold in the mid-day sun. Before him lay part of the wall which arched through the city, dividing it into three parts. One part was accessed via a narrow causeway winding up the side of a great shelf made of bricks. At the top was a shop that Crixus took for a blacksmith, due to the heavy amount of smoke rising up from it, and beside that was a smaller gate-house with the Solitude banners hanging from it. The other part led towards the blue roofs Crixus had seen, with a tall windmill atop a tower on the right side.

Thither he went, down the main division of the city. Here he found many houses, these rather more well-to-do than the houses and buildings in the previous section of the city. For one thing, these houses were not cramped together: they had a little bit of room around them, some of them enough for a garden or a hedge of shrubbery to divide them. For another thing, all of these were very tall and looked more manor-llike than the houses before. These, Crixus surmised, belonged to the rich gentry of Solitude. Turning right, he saw the long palace that he had seen from afar, with its roofs made of blue tiles. It was built in the imitation of the Colovian style, with a columned courtyard overcast by the upper rooms of the palace above. It gave Crixus the distinct impression of the grander places in his homeland of Cyrodiil, the ones he had not yet seen in their former glory before the devastation of the Great War.

* * *

Crixus walked up to the Blue Palace, where he assumed that he might find General Tullius. At the front of the Palace, he saw a line of people standing before the doors of the Palace to see the Jarl and to have her hear their petitions. Crixus quietly made his way into the line and waited as they slowly began to move into the Palace, towards the doors guarded by two Solitude hold guards. Those who passed before them were asked to leave any weapons at the door by a third guard who was looking suspiciously over a pile of swords and knives. Crixus would not go anywhere, especially anyplace rumored to have Thalmor agents in operation there, without a weapon, but he knew the Imperial martial law in Skyrim forbade weapons from being carried by citizens in the cities. With that, he untied his sheath with the gladius in it from his belt and removed his re-curve bow and quiver from off his back as he waited his turn, hoping that they would not conduct a thorough search of his person and find the knives on his legs.

When at last Crixus was allowed entry into the palace after depositing his weapons in the pile, he was ushered into a circular waiting room at the bottom of a marble staircase. The anteroom into which he was ushered was filled with people, packed from wall to wall with those who had been allowed permission to enter. They were busy talking or keeping to themselves, as Crixus did, and waited for their turn. While waiting, Crixus examined the room around him. It was very fine, even by Colovian standards, with tiled floors and marble and alabaster everywhere. There were some wooden chairs or benches nearby with heads carved like horses, wolves or dragons, the only truly Nord architecture in the room. A few potted plants gave the austere white and black hall a more lively look.

Above their heads a domed oculus shined light sunlight down into the anteroom. At the farthest end, where the crowds were halted by two hold guards, the grand black marble staircase led up to the top floor on two sides of the room, with a small garden of brilliantly-colored plants growing in a stone-lined flower-bed in between the two sides of the staircase. Further up Crixus could see an iron chandelier with candles hanging from the ceiling and another oculus shining light onto the upper level: the candles were unlit, as it was still very bright outside. He could see nothing up there, but the way that the austere marble, the vibrant plants and the lights gave the palace interior an almost magical quality.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" a voice asked nearby. Turning around, Crixus saw a short Nord man with shoulder-length blond hair and a weaselly face, dressed in fine clothes with a cloak lined with fur bound by a gold chain hanging from his neck.

"And you are?" Crixus asked.

"What are you, an idiot?" he retorted. "The name's Erikur. I'm a thane in this court. In the future, you might want to learn that _before_ talking with someone. You run the risk of looking like an idiot and all that otherwise. No need to ask if you're new to Solitude: everyone in the city knows me."

"They do, do they?" Crixus asked.

"Of course they do," said Erikur. "Half of the businesses owe me money and I own the rest. Basically I run Solitude."

"And what does a thane do?" Crixus asked.

"Not from around here, are you?" Erikur asked smugly.

"No, you fur-wearing savage, I'm from a civilized place like Cyrodiil!" Crixus retorted. More than a few eyes looked at them, but mostly those around them waited for their audience with the Jarl.

"You'd do well to pay me the respect I deserve, friend," Erikur whispered to Crixus. "Solitude is a wonderful place, but it can be very hard for those who don't know how to behave themselves. Do I make myself clear?" Crixus nodded wordlessly, then Erikur continued speaking in his normal, weaselly voice.

"I know that our ways may seem quaint to an outsider," he continued. "But Skyrim still obstinately clings onto tradition. The title of 'thane' is a high honor in the holds of Skyrim, usually given to someone of importance to the Jarl. They are able to tell the hold guards to look the other way if they desire and all they have to do in turn is fight for the Jarl."

"Like the retainers in Hammerfell," Crixus nodded. "So you fight for Elisif? The last I heard, she was Torygg's widow and has become the leader of Solitude."

"When she asks us if we support her," Erikur replied. "I answer yes." He leaned in and whispered in Crixus' ear. "The truth is that she's far too young and inexperienced to be ruling anything."

"Really?" Crixus asked.

"Let me put it this way, friend," Erikur continued. "The thanes and I have every confidence in General Tullius' leadership." Erikur pulled away with a sly smile on his face, which caused Crixus to shake his head.

"General Tullius is only here to quell the rebellion," he stated. "He doesn't rule anything."

"He's the military governor, what do you think he does while he's looking for those damn Stormcloaks?" laughed Erikur. "Besides, keeping the Empire around is good for business, and business is good for Skyrim."

"You seem to know much," Crixus commented tactically.

"I only understand what's best for Solitude," Erikur returned with a sly smile. "Jarl Elisif knows this, that's why she keeps me around. If you're planning on doing business in Solitude, _I'm_ the one you should be speaking to."

As Crixus turned to speak to him, the sniveling Nord had disappeared into the crowd. Crixus shook his head, upset at what he was hearing. Were all of Elisif's thanes like this, distrustful of her and double-minded? He began eying the people about him, thinking them all to be little more than sycophantic toadies flattering with their faces while preparing a knife for the heart. He had met quite a few of these people in Mournhold, who believed that the Imperial presence there was meaningless since Morrowind was no longer part of the Empire and tried their best to walk over him as prefect of that hell-hole. He had to be stern with them, not standing for their bullshit for a moment and reminding them who was in charge.

"Caius Crixus, the Jarl of Solitude will see you now!" a voice announced.

Crixus, who gave himself a false name as he had in Morthal, walked towards the stairs as a young maid with a white wimpled hood smiled at him. At the top of the stairs was the throne chamber, a wide square room made of marble with a group of courtiers off to the right side of the room, most of them seated or standing and whispering among themselves. To the left of the room there stood a large Nord with red hair, wearing steel plate armor and a great-sword upon his back. This, Crixus guessed, was the Jarl's housecarl, the sworn bodyguard of the ruler. In the center of the room was a two-tiered marble dias, upon which sat a wooden throne with a high back. Upon that throne was a young woman with red hair who could not have been older than Idgrod the Younger. She wore the finest clothes in the room and a gold circlet upon her head. Though when Crixus looked in her large blue eyes, he saw uncertainty hanging there.

"Welcome, Master Crixus, to Solitude," said the young woman. "I am Elisif Oyvidsdottir, Jarl of Solitude, widow of Torygg Istlodsson and called 'the Fair' by my people."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked, giving her an assuring smile. "Well, I am certain that your fairness lies in your administration as Jarl as well as your beauty."

The young woman blushed. "It is said that Colovians have silver tongues, but I did not expect this to be true."

"Would you care to see it, my lady?"

Several of those among the courtiers gasped in shock and the large red-haired Nord eyed Crixus with disapproval. Elisif meanwhile lowered her head as if in shame and looked away from Crixus.

"Oh, forgive me," Crixus returned. "I did not mean to offend you. I am an old war-dog and I fear that I speak plainer than I should in such a great court...or in the presence of so fair a noblewoman."

"All is forgiven," Elisif replied, smiling as she turned to him. "I see that the rumors of Colovian charm are also true." Crixus saw a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a beard lean in to Elisif and whisper something in her ear. She nodded at him, and then turned back to Crixus. "What is your request, Master Crixus? Or did you indeed come all this way merely to flatter me?"

"I have come to join the Imperial Legion," Crixus answered. "A unified Skyrim is better for everyone. I must speak with General Tullius."

The young woman seemed stunned for a while, then looked over nervously at the dark-haired man, who leaned in and whispered in her ear again. She then turned back to Crixus.

"I am happy that such a kind, stout-hearted old war-dog as yourself," Elisif spoke. "Has come to Skyrim to fight for the Empire and my throne. But General Tullius is not in the Blue Palace. He is in Castle Dour in the walled northern district of the town. I wish you all the best for your initiation into the Legion, good sir."

Crixus nodded his head in bow, then turned and walked back down the stairs. He had not yet set foot on the bottom stair when the sniveling, blond-haired Nord crept up to him out of seemingly nowhere, placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked. "Flattering Elisif like that? It has only been a month since her husband was killed."

"Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?" Crixus returned over his shoulder.

"I'm watching you, Crixus," Erikur abjured. "Know that when you go to sleep tonight."

* * *

Pushing himself free, Crixus walked out of the Blue Palace, then turned to the weapons hoard and lifted up his gladius and his bow and quiver, girding them upon his loins and across his shoulder. He then turned his eyes straight ahead, where stood a great keep made of stone at the far end of the street. This he guessed was Castle Dour and made his way there swiftly. But while he was walking, the young maid he had seen in the crowd came running up to him.

"Are you really a war hero?" she asked.

Crixus turned around. "Don't you have floors to be cleaning?"

"What, the Palace?" she asked. "Oh, I won't be missed. But you, what about you? Are you really a..."

"Yes, I am," Crixus returned.

"Gods be praised!" the young woman exclaimed. "A real Colovian knight, just like in the old stories."

"I'm not a knight," Crixus replied. "I'm just a legate." He then turned and continued walking towards the keep at the end of the street.

"But you've been in many battles, yes?" she continued, following at his side. "Which war did you fight in? Was it the Great War?"

Crixus groaned, said a curt "Yes" and kept his eyes on the road.

"You're a hero!" the young woman exclaimed. "Oh yes, I knew it would happen! Oh, gods be praised! I made a wish in the town well that a gallant hero would ride into Solitude, whisk me away from that dreary old castle and take me to a life of adventure and romance!" She practically leaped and danced about Crixus as she spoke, then suddenly came to a halt. "Oh, does it spoil the wish if I tell?"

"I don't believe in wishes," Crixus muttered under his breath.

"Oh, forgive me," the girl continued. "Where are my manners? My name is Erdi, I work up at the Blue Palace, obviously. You've heard me talking about that. But enough about my life, what about you? How many battles have you been in? You're from Cyrodiil, right? Did you fight any ogres in the Jerall Mountains coming here?"

Crixus marveled at the young woman's stamina, that she could keep on talking at such a brisk pace while keeping up with him. But he did not feel like answering any of her questions, for he had other things on his mind. At last, however, he came to the arch that divided the rich houses from the keep. Here the young woman would not go and so Crixus quietly thanked whoever was listening for the moment of peace as he entered into the courtyard of Castle Dour.

Here Crixus sighed happily, feeling at home once again. In the stone courtyard of the castle, surrounded by high stone walls, Imperial soldiers were training: some in hand-to-hand combat or with wooden swords, while others were aiming at straw targets for archery practice. Behind them all was the keep, accessed by a stone causeway at the far end of the courtyard. Thither Crixus went until he was stopped by an Imperial officer in steel armor.

"Halt there, citizen!" he barked at Crixus. "This place is off-limits. Go back the way you came."

"I'm here for my duties," Crixus stated. "I've been sent from Mournhold to Solitude to join the Imperial Legion. I must speak with General Tullius at once."

"He's in the keep," said the officer, gesturing to the causeway behind him. "But you'll have to leave your weapons down here with me."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then removed his sword, bow and quiver. The officer ordered a younger man in leather armor to take the things out of the middle of the courtyard, then he stood aside and let Crixus cross the courtyard to the great wooden doors of Castle Dour door at the bottom of the causeway.

Inside the keep, Crixus saw a high-roofed ante-chamber with narrow windows in the walls behind him. Before him donw a narrow corridor was a smaller room with a large table arrayed upon it. At the table were several men in Imperial armor; most of them were Imperials, but Crixus saw several Nords and an Altmer rising up above them all. Eying the elf warily, he walked towards the council room when a familiar face approached him. It was a Colovian man with gray hair, short-cut and cropped about his ears, with skin tanned by the sun. He wore the armor of an Imperial general: there was no arguing who this man was.

"Flavius!" Crixus greeted. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, since the Battle of the Red Ring?"

"General Tullius," the Colovian replied curtly. "Respect my rank when in uniform. And who are you?"

"Do you really not recognize me...general?" Crixus asked. "I lost the hair and cut my beard, but it's me, Servius Crixus."

The general made a slight smile, but it was not to last long. "You owe me a drink, soldier."

"I've been made a legate, general," Crixus returned. "I'm here to report for duty..."

"Legate Rikke!" the general shouted. At this, a tall Nord woman with dark hair like the kind that had been on Crixus' head approached at the general's call. "See to this matter."

"No," Crixus retorted. "I mean, I've already been given my orders. I'm told to report to you, though."

"All new recruits go through the legate," General Tullius commented.

"A Nord?" Crixus asked.

"I'm a loyal citizen of the Empire," Legate Rikke replied, looking condescendingly at Crixus. "My race means nothing."

"Of course it does," Crixus added. "You don't fight for loyalty, you fight because you love it."

"That's enough!" General Tullius interjected.

"I know your kind, girl," Crixus sneered. "Always rushing into the thick of battle, crying 'Victory of Sovngarde!', flaunting orders whenever convenient, drunk off your arses every night before battle, invoking Talos' name! You know what happens to them? They're the first ones to die!"

"Are you implying that I'm a rebel?" Rikke asked, anger in her voice. "Because, let me tell you, there is _no_ man or woman in all of Skyrim more loyal to the Empire than the one you're looking at!"

"Oh, is that a fact?"

"Both of my parents fought in the Imperial Legion during the War," Rikke retorted. "And I've more than earned my stripes with keeping order in Haafingar with this damned rebellion."

"But you're a Nord," Crixus stated.

"So?"

"So, isn't the leader of the rebellion a Nord?" Crixus asked. "Wouldn't you have some kind of lingering respect for him, being a warrior and all?"

"Ulfric Stormcloak is a self-serving ego-maniac," Rikke retorted. "Who has blinded himself to the truth: the Empire is the only hope of victory against the Dominion!"

"Both of you, that's enough!" General Tullius shouted. "Legate, I'll handle this. Give the others their orders."

"Yes, general!" Rikke saluted, pounding her right hand upon her breast-plate in a fist, then extending it outward, palm open. General Tullius turned to Crixus.

"First off, let me make one thing perfectly clear," he began. "If you're going to serve under me, you're going to have to get used to the idea of being around Nords. We're in Skyrim, so there's no escaping these ignorant half-wits. The other thing you need to know is that there won't be any favors because of our former friendship. I am your General: when I say be silent, you will be silent. If I say do this, you will do it. Do I make myself clear?"

Crixus nodded.

"Now then," the general continued. "As it turns out, I received the Emperor's letter of your introduction before your arrival. You will be working for the Thalmor ambassador as a spy, but right now I need your skills. We need to find out what Ulfric Stormcloak is up to, what his plans are and where he intends to strike next. I'm sending you to Windhelm in the east on the border of Morrowind. Ulfric inherited that hold from his father Vegard after the War and its become his base of operations."

"So I get into Windhelm, then?" Crixus asked. "How do I do that?"

"If knew that," General Tullius chuckled. "I wouldn't be needing your help, would I? Figure it out on your own, then learn what you can and get out of there alive. Report back to me when you're done. Do you think you can handle this?"

Crixus nodded.

"Good," General Tullius returned, then saluted him in similar fashion to how Rikke saluted him. "Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the Empire!" Crixus returned, performing the same salute.

* * *

**(AN: Fun fun. The Maro family will definitely come into play later on in the story, but here we are with some interesting little tidbits about Crixus' age, the beginning of his relationship with Elisif, his friendship with Tullius and, eventually, Rikkie, as well as his first assignment of sorts. And, of course, the big-douche of Solitude, Erikur: i had fun writing his dialogue, since i got to satire an over-rated fan-favorite from another fandom which, for my own personal protection, i won't mention.)**

**(But just you wait. Big things happen in the next chapter.)**


	9. Through the Snows of Spring

**(AN: Thank you for the review. I had to ask my brother about that, and rest assured that it will appear sooner or later.)**

**(Bleh, now I need to write a lengthy walking chapter because part of Crixus' persona in the past two stories is that everyone who travels with him...well, if you've read those stories, you will know. Also introducing two other characters, one of which will have a profound impact on Crixus' story later on.)**

**(I also added something to Morthal: a general store called The Sunken Chest. In the game, Morthal is so lacking, it's hardly worth going there unless you need to cure vampirism. I would put it down with Winterhold and Markarth as my least favorite hold-cities in Skyrim, it's that bad. But, since this story hopes to put a somewhat realistic spin to the world of Skyrim, i put a general store there. Enjoy)**

* * *

**Through the Snows of Spring**

After his trip to the Blue Palace and Castle Dour, Crixus made his way back to the Winking Skeever as the sun was sinking in the west. The horse was still tied up outside, much to Crixus' relief. Going inside, he found the atmosphere to be warm and inviting, more-so than the Bee and Barb had been. Here it was very clean and creaking wood floors and walls were replaced by stone and marble. There were several guests milling about, some of them adventurers stopping by for a quick drink before taking to the road again, towns-folk enjoying a drink on a weekend night before hitting the daily grind tomorrow, or Imperial soldiers and Hold guards off duty.

It did not take Crixus long to find Marcurio, sitting at a table with two others and a Dunmer woman on his lap. As Crixus approached, he saw that one of the men was a giant Nord with hair the color of wheat. The other was a dark-haired Imperial soldier who looked rather older, due to his receding hair-line.

"So who are your friends, Marcurio?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, there you are!" Marcurio greeted, turning to Crixus. "Your business at the Blue Palace concluded?"

"Yes I have," Crixus nodded.

"Come to the Skeever to enjoy the fine food and mead?" asked Marcurio. Crixus nodded again. "Then it seems that we may still be together for a while." He then turned to the others. "Crixus, this mountain of a man is Torgrim Stone-crusher, a member of the Hjaalmarch Imperial garrison."

"A Nord?" Crixus asked suspiciously.

"I'm a loyal son of the Empire," the large Nord said in a deep voice that seemed to make the table rumble as he spoke. "And by the White, I can drink your puny ass under the table any day."

"You're on, snow-back," Crixus retorted with a smirk.

"This lovely little thing," Marcurio continued, looking up at the elf on his lap. "Is Nalsie. The other man is on assignment from Dragon Bridge and has come here for a drink before he returns. He's a Commander in the Imperial guard, or whatever it was he called it."

"The Penitus Oculatus," said the dark-haired man with authority.

Crixus turned to him, looking oddly at him. The two met eyes, and then Crixus turned back to Marcurio. "So, where are you going after this?"

"I thought I'd head east, to Winterhold," replied the wizard. "Maybe I'd show those mages a thing or two."

"You're going through rebel territory?" Crixus asked.

"Yeah," Marcurio nodded. "Land is land, and since I'm a mercenary, they'd have no reason to attack me."

"Except that you're an Imperial," Torgrim returned.

"They can try if they think they can take me," scoffed Marcurio. "Why do you ask?"

Crixus shifted his eyes from the middle-aged Imperial soldier to the large Nord, then leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone to Marcurio. "I have reason to be in Windhelm as soon as possible."

"Windhelm?" laughed Torgrim, who had heard what Crixus said. "Going to walk up and knock on Ulfric Stormcloak's front door and ask him if he'd kindly come out to present his neck to the headsman?"

"That's none of your business," Crixus retorted.

"I don't know," Torgrim returned. "Maybe I can help? I am a Nord, after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can't just look down your nose at my people," Torgrim replied. "Just because of the rebels."

"And you don't tell me what to do," Crixus returned. He then turned back to Marcurio. "What time will you be ready tomorrow?"

"Me?" Marcurio asked. "Since when did I agree to this?"

"Well, if we're going east," Crixus answered. "Might as well go the same way for a while. Besides, I have a plan that will put me in Winterhold first. So it looks like you'll have the pleasure of my company again. Now if you will excuse me, I'm off to find myself a room." Crixus then rose from his chair and went to the inn-keeper behind the bar to pay for his room.

"Are you sure that's him?" asked the dark-haired Colovian once he was gone.

"That's the name he gave me," Marcurio returned. "Why? Having doubts already?"

"I'm not sure," said the Colovian.

"How can kin doubt each other?" asked Torgrim.

"I haven't seen him since we were children, before the Great War," said the man. "Perhaps he doesn't even recognize me. Perhaps he's changed so much that I cannot recognize him. Perhaps he's dead and that man before us is an imposter?"

"You sound paranoid, sir," Torgrim replied.

"I'm Penitus Oculatus, we're paid to be paranoid," the man retorted, then turned to Marcurio. "Well, I have to be getting back to Castle Dour. I'm still on duty and I have a long trip back to Dragon Bridge ahead of me. Thank you for the drink."

"You're welcome, sir," Marcurio replied. "And thank you for the loan."

"If that man is indeed Servius Crixus," the older man replied, pointing after the one going up the stairs of the inn. "You'll have more than enough money to pay me back. If not, your little group of mercenaries will have to be doing some work for the Empire. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Marcurio said in reply.

* * *

Marcurio was the one roused by Crixus early that morning. The spell-sword had enjoyed the night long after the sun went down and was still hung over. By the time he managed to get Marcurio out of his bed and pay for a light breakfast, the morning was burning away. When they left the Winking Skeever, Marcurio saw that Crixus had acquired another horse, along with some warm clothes and traveling gear such as extra supplies of food, dry kindling for fire-starting, a few potions, a tent and bed-roll, a grappling hook and at least two hundred feet of rope.

"Where did you get all of this?" Marcurio asked.

"Bits and Pieces across the street," Crixus replied. "They have everything."

"But what about the money?" asked Marcurio. "Last time I heard, you were broke."

"I managed to find a few people in Solitude," Crixus returned. "Who needed favors done and were more than happy to pay me for them."

"At night?" Marcurio asked.

"Some of us don't have all the free time in the world, you know," Crixus stated.

Since Torgrim was still on duty, he was not permitted to join them. They saw no more of the Penitus Oculatus soldier that day, though Marcurio remembered what he had seen on Crixus' face that night. When at last they were ready, they mounted their horses and headed west, down the hill upon which Solitude was built. They spent the rest of the day heading downhill until they reached Dragon Bridge. Here Crixus asked that they continue on, though Marcurio protested not being allowed to stay at the Four Shields Tavern.

"We have a journey that will not wait before us," Crixus had told him. "We should be in Windhelm in three days time and we're moving too slowly as it is."

* * *

Night fell eventually and the darkness fell upon them by the time they arrived outside of Morthal. Rather than going for Highmoon Hall, since Crixus was still unwilling to speak to the Jarl's daughter, he decided to stay at the local inn. What Crixus and Marcurio were in for when they arrived at Moorside Inn was something less than a good time. It was deserted, save for a group of six off at one table, the inn-keeper, a middle-aged High Yokudan Redguard woman, and an Orc minstrel whose voice sounded like a dull ax-blade being dragged across a rocky road. As Marcurio went to find themselves a room, Crixus cast his eyes upon the table of six: one of them looked familiar. Then he heard the voice: it was Eisa. He then noticed that one of those at her table, a Bosmer, was telling an animated story about one of his adventures as a Nightblade. All eyes were on the dark-skinned fellow with his brownish hair styled up into a tall pillar and Crixus quietly passed by their table and lifted something from Eisa's belt, then quickly made his way to Marcurio before he was noticed.

"It's a good thing we stayed at Highmoon Hall last time," Marcurio stated, gesturing over to the Orc, who was butchering his way through a song called 'The Age of Aggression.'

"At least he's singing the right song," Crixus retorted.

"Hey," Marcurio whispered, gesturing over to the table. "Isn't that that bandit we met at that Nordic ruin in the Pale?"

Crixus nodded. "Yes, that she is."

"Maybe we could get her help in crossing through enemy lines," Marcurio suggested.

Crixus groaned. "We don't need her."

"Come on," Marcurio retorted. "She wouldn't have any trouble sneaking past through rebel territory. Besides, even though spring is on its way, the Pale and Winterhold never see the same kind of spring that the lower holds do. It could be the dead of summer and you would still freeze to death in five feet of snow up there."

"So?"

"So maybe she knows the way around there," Marcurio stated. "Remember where we found her, right?"

Crixus had to admit that Marcurio had a point, and so reluctantly he agreed to it and walked towards their table.

"I see you're enjoying the local hospitality, Eisa," Crixus greeted.

"Trust me," she replied. "It was for the food and drink. Nothing else."

"Not going back to your kind?" Crixus asked.

"If you mean Nords," Eisa retorted. "We're in Skyrim, ass-hole! I'm surrounded by 'my kind.' But if you mean the White Watch bandits, I'm finished with them. Found myself a few sell-swords here who were more inclined to my skills."

"May you be so kind as to introduce me to them?" Crixus asked.

"Whatever," Eisa replied, rolling her eyes as she went around the table and began introducing those with her. "This is Akar..." She pointed to a large Nord with blond hair. "Marlena..." The dark-haired Colovian woman right of Akar nodded. "Eridor..." The Bosmer with the tall hair grinned at Crixus. "Savard..." Another Nord answered this name. "And this fellow right here, our youngest member, is Ma'Iir." A young Khajiit looked uneasily at Crixus, smelling him with distrust.

"Are any of you going east?" Crixus asked.

"East?" Eridor laughed. "That's Stormcloak territory. Ma'Iir and I know well to keep out of there."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Anything bad you might have heard about the rebels is true," Eridor returned.

"Ma'Iir thinks they are not good people, these Nords," the young Khajiit replies. "Ours is to avoid them at all costs."

"Well," Crixus said, turning to Eisa. "It seems that I have a need to enter Windhelm."

Eridor laughed, but Marlena turned to Crixus. "What would an adventurer such as yourself want in the eastern holds?"

"Let's just say it's a job I have to do," Crixus explained.

"Hmm," young Ma'Iir mused. "This one does not tell all that is on his mind. Ma'Iir believes it is not wise to trust him."

"Well I don't give a shite what you think about me," Crixus replied. "All I care about is getting into Windhelm. I can pay you, you know."

At this, the others turned their eyes towards Crixus, but Eisa laughed.

"Pay me?" she asked. "With what? You gave me all your money just so I would take you here. You have nothing to barter with!"

"Oh, but I do," Crixus replied, holding up the purse. "You might want to keep a closer eye on my drakes, woman."

Eisa reached furiously for her gold, only to find that it was missing. She reached for the purse, but Crixus pulled it slightly out of grasp. Eridor laughed at this.

"You're good, whatever Ma'Iir might think of you," he stated. "Alright, I'm in."

"Count me in," Marlena added.

"And me," Akar grunted. Savard nodded wordlessly.

"What about you, Lady Blackthorn?" asked Eridor. "Are you going to go with us?"

Eisa sighed, then turned around to Crixus. "Just so you know, I'm the leader of this group and I'm the one leading your ass to Windhelm. You follow my lead or you get left behind, deal?"

"Whatever you say," Crixus returned.

"Ma'Iir does not wish to travel with this one," the young Khajiit commented. "He makes Ma'Iir's hair stand on end."

"And where are you gonna go if we all go with him?" Eisa asked. "Back to Honorhall Orphanage?"

"No!" Ma'Iir replied. "Please, do not send Ma'Iir there! That Nord woman is a witch, a hagraven!"

"You're that young?" Crixus asked.

"He's only fourteen," Marlena replied. "He ran away from the orphanage on the third day of this month."

"If Aventus could run, then so could Ma'Iir," the Khajiit said, speaking more to himself than to the others. "He was only nine."

"Good," Crixus said. "Now that everything is settled, make sure you're ready to leave by seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

As Crixus was preparing to leave, a large bald Nord in studded hide armor walked into the inn. He then saw Crixus and walked over to him, presenting him with a note in his hand.

"The Jarl's daughter," he greeted. "Told me to give this to you. She said you'd be here."

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"Damn if I know," the large Nord returned. "I can't read."

"Typical," Crixus snorted, rolling his eyes as he took the letter from the Nord, whom he recognized as one of the Jarl's housecarls, and walked over to the hearth, where he opened the letter and read quietly its contents. It was written in a neat hand, though there was a portion than appeared to have been crossed out while writing.

_Dear Servius Crixus,_

_I bet you didn't know that I could write, did you? My mother and father taught both my brother and I our letters, though he hasn't taken as easily as I have. It's almost been three days since I wrote to you, I know, but I wanted to let you know that I am here if there is ever anything you wish to talk about, whether in pen or in person. I can be your confidant. ... ... .. ..., I hope to hear from you again as soon as possible._

_Sincerely,_

_Idgrod Ravencrone the Younger_

_PS - While writing, I received a vision, telling me that you will be in Morthal tonight. I sent Valdimar to have this letter sent to you. Though your mission is dangerous, I hope to see you return safely._

Crixus rolled his eyes, then placed the letter into his bosom along with the other letters that were stowed there close to his heart and away from the prying eyes of others.

* * *

In the morning, they awoke bright and early - all save for Ma'Iir, who, still a youth, was not accustomed to awaking early - and readied themselves for the journey ahead. The Sunken Chest, the Morthal general goods store, had a few supplies that the others purchased for a long trek through the snow. For, as the new self-appointed leader, Eisa wanted them all to be prepared for whatever might happen.

As the sun was rising away in the east, towards their destination, they set off on seven horses: each of them had one and Ma'Iir rode behind Marlena, clinging to her back. For the better part of the day, all was going well as the marshes passed swiftly by around them. Now the land was becoming drier and colder as they neared the Pale. Here they halted to plot their course. Crixus gazed outward towards the white peaks of the high mountains beyond and the snow-covered lands below them as he dismounted and walked over to where Marcurio, Eisa and Eridor were examining their map.

"What's the situation?" he asked.

"There's been a report of some avalanches around Mount Anthor," Eisa returned. "The Wayward Pass is closed. Other than that, it's a straight shot eastward from here to Windhelm."

"We're not going to Windhelm first," Crixus replied.

"Why not?" Eisa asked. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"We're stopping at Winterhold first," Crixus added, gesturing to the shield with the three-pointed crown at the top-most part of the land on the map.

"By way of Dawnstar?" Eisa asked. "That's not a good idea. It's said that those who come to Dawnstar are plagued by terrible nightmares."

"The work of some daedric prince, I've heard in the Bee and Barb," Marcurio stated.

"I fear no daedric princes of Oblivion," Crixus replied. "My family has been in contact with them ever since my father married my stepmother."

"I refuse to risk the others to whatever may be lurking in Dawnstar," Eisa replied.

"Then you can kiss my arse," Crixus retorted, walking back to his horse.

"If my time with the White Watch bandits taught me nothing else," Eisa called back to him. "It's that working together as a team gets shit done much faster than working alone."

"Don't lecture me about team-work," Crixus retorted, turning to her with anger in his eyes. "I was in the Great War, we either fought together or died alone."

"Then don't be such an ass and work _with_ us!" Eisa replied.

Crixus slowly walked back to the other two. Once there, he removed the map from Eisa's hands and pointed towards it.

"We go to Winterhold first," he said at last. "But not by way of Dawnstar. That's a Stormcloak hold and I don't want to be around rebels any more than I have to be."

"Then which way do you suggest?" Eisa asked.

"I don't know," Crixus returned. "It's all the same to me. Don't you know more about this land than I do? That's why you're here, right?"

Eisa pointed to a large stretch of land in between Dawnstar and Winterhold. "There is a canyon here," she said. "Several old ruins here and there, but it's mostly just snow and ice. We can cross here without being detected by anyone in the three rebel holds."

"How do we get in there?" Crixus asked.

"There's a small pass east of Snowpoint Beacon here," Eisa said, pointing to it on the map. "But, since it's close to the summit of Mount Anthor, there's a possibility that it's been covered over by the avalanche. If that's the case, we can go north to Frostflow Lighthouse by the Imperial camp: there are paths down into the canyon from there."

"Nobody's supposed to know about the Imperial camps in Skyrim," Crixus retorted grimly.

"Don't worry," Eisa chuckled. "No Stormcloak rebels have approached me with a convincing offer yet, so their location is still secret."

"Then what?"

"Then," Eisa replied with a grim chuckle. "It's a wasteland for miles. There should be a small trail at the far end of the canyon, near the old ruins of Saarthal. The wizards of the College of Winterhold have been using that trail for their expeditions into the ruins, for what reason I can't guess. I mean, would you want _me_ to go into some Colovian crypt just to pry around the bodies of your ancestors?"

"Thankfully," Crixus added with a smirk. "My ancestors were buried in graves outside of Anvil. But I wouldn't expect a Nord to appreciate history, even if its of your own people."

"I don't care about the past, just about money," Eisa retorted.

"And you'll have your drakes when you get me to Windhelm," Crixus retorted. "Now let's get on with this. We should be in Windhelm in two days time."

"_If_ the weather permits," Eisa replied. "One day you've got clear skies from Markarth to Windhelm, the next you're neck deep in snow."

* * *

The rest of the day was spent marching eastward, through two feet deep snow drifts. Neither Crixus nor Marcurio would have known that they were going the same way they had previously passed but a few days ago. The snows had covered up most of the paths or roads through this area, save for the often-used Red Road going north from Fort Dunstad to Dawnstar. Both Crixus and Marcurio had followed that road on their first trek through here, but Eisa was wary about crossing it again.

"We're bound to find Stormcloaks on the roads," she stated. "And farther north, near the old dwarven ruin of Mzinchaleft, there's a pass that's guarded by giants."

The party continued on through the day filled with snow. Thankfully, there was a clear sky above them. It illuminated a wide valley filled with snow-clad pine-trees and surrounded by snow-capped mountains. To a Nord, the clean, crisp snow, the mountains towering to the rim of the sky and the mighty trees, dressed in their finest spring's rime, would have been nothing short of a picture of beauty. For Crixus, who grew up in balmy Anvil, it was brutal. His boots were freezing from the last time he dismounted to examine the map with Eisa and Eridor, and foul things were hiding behind the trees and in the mountains.

By the late afternoon, the party had crossed the valley. The sun was passing down behind the high mountains in a blaze of red, orange and violet that even Crixus couldn't deny held some beauty and grandeur. If there had been any greater light, they could have seen the canyon of which Eisa had spoken directly before them. As it was, the darkness of a storm was brewing before them in the valley beyond.

They had stopped before the lone tower of Snowpoint Beacon while Eisa, Marlena and Ma'Iir went to look for the pass that Eisa had mentioned. The two Nords were keeping the horses at the bottom of the tower while Crixus, Marcurio and Eridor were standing at the top of the tower, gazing out at the land around them.

"About a mile or two north of us," Marcurio stated. "Is the old Imperial fortress of Driftshade Refuge. It used to be manned until the fort collapsed sixteen years ago. Now it's a camp for the Silver Hand."

"Who are the Silver Hand?" Crixus asked.

"Daedra hunters," Marcurio replied. "They used to belong to the Vigilants of Stendarr, those of the Knights of the Nine who survived the Great War. But then they went rogue and chose to hunt only werewolves."

"You seem to know quite a bit about everything in Skyrim," Crixus smirked.

"I listen," Marcurio replied. "And besides, I have a fascination for the old Nordic ruins around here. Do you know some of the barrows around here predate the Cyrodiil Dynasty? And most of the ones still standing are necropoli."

"Necropoli?"

"Burial cities," Marcurio continued. "The ancient Nords had a strange obsession with death. Atmorans they were called when they first came here. You know, that canyon we're about to go in is less than half a mile from the ruins of Saarthal."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" asked Crixus, cocking one eyebrow cynically.

"Saarthal was one of the first Atmoran settlements on Tamriel," Marcurio replied. "It was there that the first blows in the age-old war between mankind and mer-kind were struck with the Night of Tears. According to tradition, the Snow Elves attacked at night and slaughtered all the Atmorans, save for Ysgramor and his sons."

"Nothing can be wholly obliterated," Crixus shook his head. "Something always survives in the end."

"Do you think the old stories are lying?"

"That wouldn't surprise me," Crixus snickered. "Nords tend to exaggerate their accomplishments, from my experience with them in the War."

"Well then," Marcurio replied. "If the rumors of the mages from the College of Winterhold doing experiments in Saarthal are true, you might just get your wish. Those ruins have been untouched since Ysgramor's time. They should still hold some evidence of what happened down there."

"Here they are!" Eridor cried out. "They're back!"

The three of them made their way down the old, weathered and worn steps of the tower down to the bottom. The two horses were now riding up from their scouting of the way forward and as they approached, they dismounted and Eisa gave her report.

"The path is flooded with snow," she said. "There's no way we can get the horses down there, and I've paid good money for them. We're not going to throw them out into the snow to be food for the wolves or ice-wraiths."

"_You_ paid good money for them?" Crixus retorted.

"So what's our next move?"

"There's a storm being blown our way from the Sea of Ghosts," Marlena stated. "And night will be on us soon. Up here at least we'll have some kind of protection. I say we should hunker down in this tower until morning, then we'll be able to make our way down into the canyon easier once it's light."

"We've already wasted too much time as it is!" Crixus retorted. "We need to be in Windhelm by the day after tomorrow!"

"I won't risk the lives of my crew," Eisa interjected. "If prudence says we stay, we stay."

"But..."

"End of discussion!" Eisa then went to the others and began ordering their set-up for the night.

"Fat, overbearing b*tch," Crixus said under his breath.

* * *

Nightfall was not far off and when it came, there was no going outside for them. A blizzard struck the mountainside on which Snowpoint Beacon was built, sending them all into a deep, cold night. Inside the ruined tower they huddled in their winter clothes to try to keep warm. Only Akar, Savard and Eisa seemed unperturbed by the cold. Eridor was practically shivering while Marlena let young Ma'Iir huddle together with her for warmth. Crixus and Marcurio both shivered under their heavy fur coats.

"You lovers can always cuddle if you're feeling cold," Eisa commented.

"We're not lovers!" Crixus flatly retorted, anger rising as his teeth chattered. "Molag Bal's cock, I don't see how you can stand this cold!"

"We're used to the cold," Eisa replied.

"I'm not!" Eridor added. "It's never this cold in Valenwood."

"You're from the Dominion?" asked Crixus.

"What, because I'm a Bosmer that makes me automatically part of the Aldmeri Dominion?" Eridor retorted in an offended tone. "I'll have you know, Colovian, that not everyone in Valenwood is part of the Dominion. There are places in the jungles that not even the Altmer and their magicks could ever reach. I know of no better way to say it other than that there is some kind of magicka in the forest itself, something neither the Altmer nor you Imperials will ever understand."

"Trees, you mean?" Crixus chuckled. "You know, according to legend, Cyrodiil was once a jungle. There was nothing but lush tropical forests from coast to coast in the south."

"You're human, of course you wouldn't understand," Eridor replied, shaking his head.

"What about you?" Crixus asked, turning to Marlena.

"My family moved to Skyrim after a string of bad-luck back in Chorrol," she replied. "Then they died ten years ago, when I was sixteen. Since then I've been on the run from every hold."

"For what?"

"Stealing," she retorted. Crixus smirked. "Why are you smiling?"

"Here I thought you were something dangerous, like a murderer or a rapist."

"Tell me about it," Marlena rolled her eyes. "I mean, who are the Jarls to judge _me_ for stealing a few drakes here and there? I only steal from the rich and give to the poor. Granted, 'rich' is open to interpretation, but I don't have to explain myself to anyone!"

"Good on you," Crixus replied. "Never give them an inch. Always look out for number one."

"Well, not anymore," she said, looking down at the Khajiit snuggled up against her bosom. "When I joined up with this lot, I was on my way out. Stealing just didn't give me the same thrill it used to give. Then he showed up and kind of took a liking to me. Now, if I ever steal again, it's only for him."

"Only?"

"Well, I _did_ take a beggar's coin for myself in Falkreath once," Marlena replied, shrugging. "But he was blind, I wanted to see if I could do it without being caught. Besides, he had his legs and his hands. Its not like he couldn't have provided for himself eventually."

"What did you spend the coin on, if I may ask?" Crixus asked.

"Some fine alto wine and a night with an Orc chieftain," Marlena answered, a smile on her face.

"I'd tip my cap to you, if I had one," Crixus replied.

"What about you two?" Marlena asked.

"We are _not_ lovers," Crixus answered slowly and loudly. "He rescued me from some damn Stormcloaks and we both found each other interesting."

"We both have the same likes," Marcurio added. "Strong drink and a lusty maiden to squeeze."

"The finer things in life, basically," Crixus concluded.

"Well, don't get any ideas," Marlena retorted. "I'm pretty handy with a blade and Eisa's so strong, she could crush your skull with her legs if you tried anything."

"I don't fancy Nord women," Crixus stated. "Too big and hairy, like fat cows. And they're almost like men!"

"Keep on talking," Eisa smirked. "Maybe I'll lead you out into the snows and leave you there to freeze to death."

"Not without your drakes," Crixus added.

"So what about you, Eisa?" Marcurio asked.

"What about me?" she answered with another question.

"We know about the sword incident," Marcurio continued. "But how did you end up joining the White Watch band?"

"I was only fifteen when I first killed someone," Eisa began, gazing into their flickering fire. "Some boys were taunting me about my..." She looked down at her breast-plate, covered by her fur cloak. "...well, let's just say that I was growing slower than most girls my age. They made fun of me, so I bashed one of the boy's heads in. Was sent to Cidhna Mine for a year."

"A little extreme, don't you think?" Crixus asked.

"Nords don't take insults lightly," Eisa answered.

"Is that a fact?" Crixus asked, a devious grin on his face as though his greatest enemy had just let slip a deadly weakness.

"So, what is Cidhna Mine anyway?"

"A silver-mine underneath Markarth," Eisa continued. "Though it's more like a death camp. People down there don't usually last long. You work all day and all night and only get food every week: that's how we kept track of time down there. Everything else seems to fade away down there. Some people got sick, others died in prison fights, some in cave-ins. Anyhow, I met Madanach down there and he had pity on me because I was young."

"The King in Rags?" Crixus asked.

"You know him?"

"I know _of_ him," Crixus replied. "He used to be the King of the Reachmen until Ulfric Stormcloak drove him out after the War. Is he still down there?"

"Last time I saw he was."

"Now _there_ is someone to follow," Crixus commented. "Fighting a holy war to take back his peoples' land from a foreign invader."

"There are Nord tombs in the Reach," Marcurio stated.

"I don't give a shite," Crixus retorted. "If a Nord builds a house in Hammerfell, that doesn't make that house part of Skyrim. It still belongs to Hammerfell."

"What about the Empire?" asked Marcurio.

"What about it?"

"You keep talking about Mournhold," Marcurio replied. "The last Imperial presence on mainland Morrowind. Well, doesn't that land belong to the Dunmer and not the Empire?"

"See, now that's where you're wrong," Crixus stated. "The Empire is inherently fair and just. Any land of theirs is sovereign land and should be theirs for all time."

"But not any land populated by Nords?" Marcurio asked.

"Precisely," Crixus replied with a smile. "At last you're getting it."

"Why not?" Eisa asked, angry that Crixus had hijacked the conversation. "Why do you Imperials get to own whatever land you choose and we Nords don't?"

"Because you're Nords," Crixus replied. "You take things that don't belong to you through bloodshed and carnage, claiming new land over a mountain of dead bodies and children's skulls. The Empire is not that way: we...we earn things out of diplomacy, mutual understanding and-and cooperation in order to achieve common goals. We only ever resort to violence at the very last possible moment."

Marcurio had been watching Crixus' exchange with Eisa and he noticed that when he spoke of the Empire, he hesitated. It almost seemed as if Crixus was uncomfortable with preaching about his own people and their Empire, as though he did not believe the words that he was speaking.

"Whatever," Eisa rolled her eyes. "Like I said, the past means nothing to me. Only the present. And at that time, I had no future, so I decided to stop thinking about it and instead focus on staying alive. Madanach helped me stay alive, though. It was strange: here I had heard such great tales about his ferocity and ruthlessness, and yet he was helping me stay alive in that shit-hole of a prison."

"Those 'great tales'," Crixus retorted. "Were probably spun by Nord tongues. I would suggest you read _The Bear of Markarth_ for an informative and unbiased history on Madanach's Kingdom, but..." He chuckled. "...you probably can't read."

"What's the point?" Eisa asked. "What's in a book that could help me? You can't eat a book, it don't keep you warm at night..."

"Only good for burning, I see," Crixus smugly stated. Eisa rolled her eyes, but Marcurio, still interested, wanted to continue the conversation.

"How did you get out?"

"I did my time and I was released," she answered. "When I told Madanach, he said it was because I was a Nord that the Silver-Bloods let me out easily. When I got out, I learned that my family had all died and that there was nothing for me in Markarth. So I went east until I hit the White River, that's when I met Hajvarr Iron-Hand. He weren't exactly a smart leader, and me and the others decided to kick his ass out: turns out he was smarter than we thought. After a few attempts, me and some of the others headed farther east. Then I met Ra'jirr and we come back to Hjaalmarch looking for treasure."

Marcurio nodded, then looked over at Akar and Savard. "What about them?"

"I don't want to hear another Nord story tonight," groaned Crixus.

"Good, because they're not much for talking," Eisa returned. "Akar don't say much and Savard don't talk at all. They're usually good just for killing stuff. Now go to sleep, they'll keep watch for us."

"I feel _so_ safe," Crixus groaned as he lay down on his bed-roll, wrapping the fur cloak around him. While he was trying to fall asleep, Marcurio whispered to him.

"Still on the warpath against Nords?" he whispered.

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "I haven't seen anything of them so far to disprove anything my stepmother said, and I didn't even like that b*tch."

"You certainly talk about her fondly," Marcurio commented.

"Trust me, I never loved her and she never loved me," Crixus replied. "Now let's just drop it. We have a long day ahead of us."

"Yes," Marcurio whispered. "And when you get to Windhelm, you'll see more than you'll want to see."

* * *

**(AN: I had wanted [or dreaded] this to be one long adventure chapter, but thought that that would just kill me, so i decided to split it up, since this is Crixus' story and can therefore afford to meander since my brother likes having stuff that happens for the sake of happening, not really for anything big or important.)**

**(A little background of these characters, as well as some stuff about the lay of the land and why Crixus acts the way he does. Please remind me if i breach Elder Scrolls canon. I rarely do it unless i have a REALLY good reason [like something iron-clad, like the story progression or such], but if i make a mistake or say something that is erroneous to canon, please point it out.)**


	10. A Path Through Snow and Ice

**(AN: Now it gets real! [unfortunately, that means i have to use an epic cliche])  
**

**(Here is something that bothers me. My brother [yes, we're doing that] got upset at the comparisons made between the Imperials and the Roman Empire, so he went on tumblr [the "wretched hive of scum and villainy", aka, Morrowind] and found a blog that gave him everything he wanted. The blogger said that the Imperials were not based on the Roman Empire but instead on Creoles, and then [and this really upset me] that Nords were not based on Norsemen but on...get this...Egyptians! The only reasons being that the ancient Nords built houses of stone rather than wood and that they also buried their dead rather than burned them...except that there _are_ burial mounds in Scandinavia from the Viking Age, draugr are particularly Nordic, NOT Egyptian, and Nords in Skyrim _have_ been known to burn their dead as well)**

* * *

**A Path Through Snow and Ice**

The camp was disturbed in the dead of the night by howling. Drawing forth her axe and picking up her shield, Eisa was the first one out to see what had happened. Marcurio and Crixus followed suit, running out into the thick of a blizzard. So thick was the snow that fell about them that they could scarce see more than a few feet before them, even with Akar brandishing a flaming branch from the fire-pit. The snow was so thick that Crixus could feel it up to his knees as he sleepily trod out to respond to whatever had attacked. The howling wind, also, made every voice to die even as it came out from their frozen lips.

"Akar!" Eisa shouted over the blizzard. "What is it?"

"Wolves!" roared the large Nord.

Through the blinding snow and the howling wind, Crixus could scarcely manage to hear the sound of wolves howling: far too close for his comfort. He had not seen the size of the wolves that had slain Baucus, but from the size of their claw-marks on his body, he had a guess that they were much larger than the timber wolves that haunted the highlands around Bruma or the southern heights of the Jerall Mountains. His concentration was suddenly broken by a loud neighing.

"The horses!" Eisa's voice cried out from somewhere in the blinding snow. "Protect the horses!"

Crixus saw a burst of flame coming from somewhere. He guessed that it must have been Marcurio, since no Nord would conjure fire. Making his way towards where he saw the fire, he heard the neighing of the horses and, then, the stony face of the tower appeared before him.

"Get them inside!" he heard Eisa called out in a faint voice.

Crixus' hands, numbed by the biting snow and chilling wind, touched the wall and he felt his way towards where the horses were tied. He could hear them now over the storm, neighing and stamping their feet in terror. The wolf attack had riled them up into a frenzy and now they were in as much danger from themselves as from the wolves. Crixus knew too well about wolf-attacks in snowy ranges from the months he spent in the Red Dog Pass. Nine months of a four year venture into Hammerfell, ending in total disaster. Cut off from Cyrodiil with no news of the war's end, they fought on and on, until that fateful last stand...

"Hurry!" Crixus heard Marcurio shout. "Get the horses inside!"

Crixus finally found one, took its reins and, despite the stamping, rearing up on hind legs and neighing, he managed to drag it into the safety of the tower. By this time everyone else was awake and he told them quickly of their problem, urging them to give him a hand. Once done he strode out into the snow, which was already feeling deeper than before. It gave less as he planted his feet into it, swimming as though through a cold bog. He found the next horse, seized the reins and dragged it back as the others waded out into the snow after the other horses. He brought the horse next to the other one inside, making a mental note of how many horses they had: two for him and Marcurio and five for Eisa's company. Two were now safe and as he made his way back outside a third time, a third horse was brought safely into the warm. Three horses rescued, only four more to go.

Crixus reached out to the nearest horse, dragging it stubbornly after him as he heard, carried on the wind around him, the cries of wolves and something like someone shouting. Heedless, he dragged the horse into the tower, then made his way to the door, only to find Marlena, Eridor and Ma'Iir dragging in the fifth horse, his horse laden with his gear. Then Marcurio came rushing into the tower, shivering with cold. Lastly Akar was thrown inside, howling and cursing as loud as he could. Lastly came Eisa, talking to the large Nord with a grim countenance upon her face.

"There's nothing you can do, Akar!" she returned. "They're gone!"

"No!" sobbed Akar.

"What happened?" Marlena asked.

"Wolves," Eisa began. "They attacked us during the night. Akar and Savard managed to hold them off until the blizzard broke down upon them. Then the wolves backed off and then they came again."

"Savard!" Akar moaned, looking out at the doorway.

"Have some balls, man!" Crixus retorted. "People die all the time."

"Have pity, you ass-hole!" Eisa shouted back. "Savard was Akar's lover."

Crixus did not reply. To him it made no difference who slept with whom. He had met plenty of same-sex couples in Mournhold to hold much in the way of scruples. All he wanted was to enjoy women and be left alone, and he would leave alone men who sought out cocks and women who fancied 'pilfering' other women.

"There are still two horses out there," he finally said, pointing towards the door.

"No," Eisa said, shaking her head. "There ain't. The wolves got them in the end. Dire-wolves, the size of a bear."

"Were they werewolves?" asked Ma'Iir fearfully.

"There ain't no _wargs_ this far north," Eisa returned. "Not with the Silver Hand nearby."

The night was passed in uneasy silence as none of them could bare falling asleep with the thought of wolves hanging in the shadows outside the tower. They listened nervously to the howl of the wind, half expecting to hear the call of the wolves just beyond their hearing. One by one they passed out from sheer exhaustion, even Servius Crixus.

* * *

Morning rose rather dimly, with the fire-pit in the center of the tower having long since died out. The old trap-door at the top of the tower still held and so the stairs leading up to the top story were not packed down with snow. But there was a problem about the front entrance of the tower. A wall of snow blanketed the entrance into Snowpoint Beacon from the floor to the arch of the door. Eisa led them, including Crixus, in digging out a path through the snow that would be wide enough for the horses to go through. After a light breakfast and a share of a potion from Crixus' supplies, they went to work on the wall of snow. It was hard work and it seemed to go slower than they expected. For as soon as they had removed some snow, more would cave down upon the work they had done, making it all for naught.

The morning was swiftly passing by overhead by the time they finally plowed through the snow a suitable path for both horse and riders. With the rest of their gear, they led the horses up onto the snow, which was more or less half the depth of the drift that had piled up against the door: Crixus in fact surmised that the snow before the door had fallen from the top of the tower. Once they were out, they began making their plans for departure. Akar chose to walk while the others rode.

The going was slow as they made their way north, keeping towards the cliffs to their right as they went. Crixus often complained that they were going nowhere, or that they would never arrive in Windhelm under his time schedule. The others ignored him and kept on their way. They heard no sound of the wolves from last night, nor saw they sign of them, nor the horses or Savard. Still they journeyed onward.

Towards the middle of the day, after they passed the sunken fort of Driftshade Refuge on their right some ways back, they left the cliffs to the west and began turning eastward. As they came towards the edge of the eastern cliffs, they saw what had been hidden from their sight by reason of a cloud of fog blown out from the sea. Before them the cliff dove down into a vast glacier of ice, glistening pale-blue in the mid-day sun. To the north-west they could see the Sea of Ghosts, gleaming dark blue as it stretched for miles out of sight, dotted by icebergs and frozen islands. Presently they saw, stretching before them, in the center of the glacier, a canyon cut into the ice as though a great axe, such as the fabled Wuuthrad, the axe of Ysgramor, had cut through the ice a pathway from the shore down below to the snowy ground.

"There we are," Eisa stated, gesturing towards the glacier. "If we push now, we might arrive in Winterhold tonight."

"Still behind schedule," Crixus replied. No one answered him but they all gave him dirty looks as though he had just pissed on somebody's grave.

"What is that?" Ma'Iir asked, pointing towards the mountains to the south-east.

Looking there, where the line of mountains in the east rose up to unmeasurable heights, they saw, just on the edge of what they could see, hidden by the heights of Mount Anthor, what looked like a stone statue of immense size rising from the land.

"That," Eisa answered. "Is the Shrine of Azura, one of the daedric princes of Oblivion. It was built centuries ago by the dark elves when they came to Skyrim after their mountain exploded."

"Quiet!" Crixus suddenly exclaimed. "We're not alone!"

It did not take them long to find out what it was that was attacking them this time. They made more noise than the wolves, lumbering through the snow and growling with each step of the way. Two large ice trolls, clad in white fur, came lumbering down the hill-side from the cliffs to meet them. Apparently their passing close to the cliffs on the west side had alerted two sleeping trolls to their passing. The trolls were now upon them, swinging wide with their huge arms.

The first troll swung at the head of Crixus' horse with its huge paws. The horse stood no chance and collapsed under Crixus' weight. So near was he to the edge that the horse began sliding down into the valley below. Crixus barely had time to grab onto something as his horse slid down to the bottom. For a moment he lurched after the horse, then quickly pulled his feet up and out of the stirrups. He tried to cling onto the ground before him but it was too snowy and his gloved fingers tore into the snow, grabbing nothing. A fire-ball from above struck the troll, sending it flying after the horse, when suddenly Marcurio's face appeared, holding out his hand to Crixus.

"Here!" he shouted. "Give me your hand!"

Reaching out, Crixus' wet glove seized Marcurio's hand and came off in it, leaving his bare hand to grasp vainly at the freezing cold snow.

"Again, again!" Marcurio shouted, throwing the glove aside and holding his hands down.

Crixus reached up again, this time finally taking hold of Marcurio's hand. The young wizard pulled with all of his might, trying desperately to bring Crixus back onto level ground. Above him Crixus could hear fighting going swiftly among the others. Then there was a loud cry and then a dull roar as of a large creature in the throes of death. Crixus was now back on the shelf and looked briefly on the scene. The others were about, looking shocked and in sorrow, while Eisa was kneeling over a large body lying next to the dead troll.

The body was that of Akar. He had been killed while trying to fight the troll.

"We need to get down there, now," Crixus broke the silence at last, pointing down into the valley.

"Do you have no heart?" Marlena asked through tears.

"All my gear was on my horse," Crixus returned. "We're not crossing this glacier without my supplies."

"The White take your gear!" Eisa shouted. "Akar was my friend!"

"At least let them mourn his death," Marcurio muttered, turning to Crixus.

"While my duty faces more and more delays," Crixus murmured, turning back towards the east.

"Did you lose all tact in the war?"

"Oh, fuck you!" Crixus retorted.

"There you go again," Marcurio stated. "You know, if it weren't for the fact that we're in the middle of fuck-all, I'd leave your arse again!"

"Are you seriously going to be this whiny?" asked Crixus.

"All I ask is a little respect," Marcurio retorted. "Wouldn't you want the same?"

"We'll bury him here," Eisa spoke up. "Then we'll forge ahead."

* * *

Crixus and Marcurio watched as Eisa, Eridor, Ma'Iir and Marlena buried Akar's body under a pile of snow and loose rocks. The troll they pushed off the cliff with the other one while the two Colovians watched on silently.

"Burying their dead?" Crixus asked Marcurio. "Doesn't seem like a Nord thing to do. I thought they'd just eat his body right there."

"While I'm sure there are some daedric cults that practice cannibalism," Marcurio replied. "Nords have a strong attachment to death. The Atmoran tradition, brought back from the Merethic Age when dragons ruled, held that the dead should be buried whole and embalmed, to preserve the body for use by their priests, who served the dragons and were, in turn, given great power over the dead. Some believe that the draugr exist because of the ancient Atmorans' faith in the dragons."

"Dragons?" Crixus scoffed. "There are no dragons in Tamriel. Any real ones, at least. It was said that there was something like a dragon at the end of the Oblivion Crisis, but that was the Avatar of Akatosh, if you believe all that nonsense about St. Martin breaking the Amulet of Kings and becoming a golden dragon."

"St. Martin?" Marcurio asked. "You're one of the Cult of the Dragon?"

"You know about that?" asked Crixus.

"I stay in Riften," Marcurio returned. "News from Cyrodiil is quite common in the Bee and Barb. And I've heard quite a bit about that religious group, the Cult of the Dragon. They worship the Septims and hold Martin Septim in the highest honor."

"Well," Crixus snickered. "I wouldn't be a good atheist if I worshiped any cult, would I? Besides, I've never met anyone of the Cult of the Dragon. I've only heard the rumors about some people back home trying to canonize Martin Septim. If any man or being were deserving of veneration as a god, that would be Martin Septim."

"Wasn't there a dragon in the Tale of Cyrus the Redguard?" Marcurio asked.

"If you actually _believe_ that myth," Crixus snickered again.

Marcurio rolled his eyes. "But as I was saying, Nords _do_ bury their dead. There have been three stages of the various rituals of interring the bodies. The oldest, of course, is mummification. Then about the First or Second Era it became burial mounds, though those were usually only for noteworthy people. Then, with the Third Era, the Colovian custom of burying became commonplace throughout the Empire, including here in Skyrim. Although there are some who keep the old traditions of Ysgramor."

"More old Nord traditions," Crixus groaned.

"Ysgramor was burned after he died," said Marcurio. "And his ashes stored in a crypt just off the shore. In fact..." He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out northeast. "I think we might be able to see the island from here if we look close enough..." Crixus, however, was not following Marcurio. The burial service was over and Eisa was walking towards Crixus, disapproval in her eyes.

"Alright," she said. "We go down."

"First things first, though," Crixus stated. "We should let the horses go."

"What?" asked Marlena.

"No!" protested Eisa.

"They won't be able to get down this hill," Crixus stated. "And I doubt they'd be of much help farther on down there. Besides, we're not far from Driftshade Refuge. Maybe the Silver Hand will find our horses and take care of them."

"I don't like this one bit," Eisa stated.

"Tough," Crixus returned. "Now let's get going." He turned to Eridor, Marlena and Ma'Iir. "Take everything you'll absolutely need off the horses. We might yet meet trouble along the way."

* * *

Ten minutes passed as they gathered their things from their horses and prepared to make the journey down the hill. Once they were ready, Eridor was the first to slide down the snow-drift incline down which Crixus' horse had fallen. He reached the bottom without any incident and soon the others were sliding down the snowy embankment to the bottom. Once they were down, Crixus ran to his dead horse and removed his gear from its body, especially the grappling hook and coil of rope.

They went therefore onward, with a wide expanse to cross before them. Presently the soft, crunchy snow beneath their feet changed: now it was hard, slippery and frozen solid. A chill, salty wind they could feel blowing upon them from off the sea. Yet on they marched, for there was still a long ways yet to travel. About three hours after mid-day, the frozen drifts became rigid crags that they could not have possibly crossed on horse-back. At the most the distance between each crevice was about ten feet and most of them were able to easily jump across.

At last they came to one crevice that was too wide to leap across. This was the icy canyon they had seen from far above, that which looked as though it had been carved by a great battle-axe. But here, up close, it appeared to be so wide that even a giant could not leap across its gaping maw. Sheer walls of ice rose up on both sides with shelves of ice jutting out from the top of the walls, leaving absolutely no room to climb atop them. The drop down from where they stood to the bottom of the canyon would surely kill even a giant. Further on down the canyon's bottom opened up to the sea, where a wide, gravelly beach of dark rocks lay before the sea-side. Fat horkers with flippers instead of arms or legs waddled about the shore, eating fish or mud-crabs out of the silt with the three long tusks of their mouths.

"Well," Eisa sighed. "Here we are. And it doesn't look like we can go any farther today."

"Looks can be deceiving," Crixus replied.

"Should we try and go around?" Ma'Iir asked.

"No, that will take too long," Crixus retorted, then turned to Eridor and Marlena. "Do you two have bows?"

"Yes," Eridor nodded.

"I always carry a bow with me," Marlena replied.

"Good," Crixus smirked. "There might be a way out of this yet."

He then knelt down upon the ice shelf and began hacking a hole into it with its knife.

"What are you doing?" Eisa asked.

"Getting us..." grunted Crixus. "Some...secure...holds. You two...get my rope!"

"Rope?" asked Eridor.

"Yes!" Crixus added. "This is why...I had to get it...from my horse. We need it! Now...get the rope!"

Eridor and Marlena took the rope of Crixus' shoulders while he hollowed out a hole in that part of the ice shelf, then moved on to another ice-shelf nearby and began striking at it.

"So what do we do with the rope?" Marlena asked.

"Cut it in two," he replied. "There's about two hundred feet on there, and this chasm can't be more than fifty feet."

"But there's nothing on the other side to shoot for," Eridor replied, divining what Crixus was suggesting.

"That's why I have my grappling hook," Crixus added. "Now...cut the rope!"

Crixus continued hacking into the second ice shelf as the two cut apart the rope into two halves of equal length. Rising up and pocketing his knife, Crixus gestured across the canyon, then pulled out his Imperial re-curve bow.

"What kind of arrows do you have?" Crixus asked.

"Standard hunting arrows," Eridor replied.

"Steel-tipped arrows," Marlena added.

"I mean the shafts."

"Oh, they're ironwood."

"Excellent," Crixus smiled. "Now tie one end of the rope onto the arrow and fire them at the canyon wall. I'll do the first one." Crixus removed one of Marlena's steel-tipped ironwood arrows and tied the rope to it. He then fitted the arrow into his bow-string, inhaled deeply, pulled back the bow and let it loose. The arrow flew through the air, striking hard into the ice about four feet away from the other arrow-strike and holding fast. Amazed at his success, Marlena fired another arrow at the wall, which stuck fast.

"Now tie the other end," Crixus instructed. "Into these holes I made in the ice."

"I see it now!" Eisa realized. "You're going to climb across the canyon using the ropes, aren't you?"

"That's exactly right," Crixus commented.

"Rather ingenious," Marcurio added.

"Yes, I did think it was rather so," Crixus smiled. "With this, we should cut at least an hour or two off our journey if we went around the canyon. Come on, let's get across already."

After securing the ropes into the holes in the ice and his grappling hook and its twenty foot rope onto himself, Crixus carefully slid down off the side of the ice shelf, holding onto the rope with one hand. He then reached out to the other rope, catching it in his other hand, then began climbing across the canyon hand over hand upon the two ropes. Marcurio was the next one down onto the ropes, carefully creeping across them while trying desperately to remain calm. He tried not looking down, but then his eyes caught sight of a wonder frozen in the side of the icy canyon wall several yards down. Somewhere near the ground, there was a giant mammoth frozen in the ice, its body perfectly preserved for how ever long it had remained trapped there before being released by the winds of time.

Behind him, Marcurio could feel the rope shake as Eisa took hold of the ropes and began climbing after them.

"Easy, easy!" he shouted back.

"What's the matter, mage?" Eisa asked, straining as she pulled herself along. "Afraid?"

"Yes, I am a little afraid of falling to my death!" Marcurio retorted. "Don't shake the ropes!"

At the rear, Marlena was busy trying to convince Ma'Iir to cross the rope bridge. The young Khajiit, already afraid over the loss of two large Nords, was having doubts about their journey.

"It's perfectly safe," she assured him.

"Ma'Iir does not know," the young Khajiit returned, shaking his head. "Ma'Iir told Eisa about him..." He pointed towards Crixus. "...but nobody listens to Ma'Iir. Ma'Iir does not trust this bridge of ropes!"

"There's nothing to be afraid about!" she continued.

"Of course not, Ma'Iir," Eridor added, tussling the fur between Ma'Iir's long, pointed ears with a playful chuckle.

"This rope bridge is nothing compared to the vines that grow beneath the mangrove trees back home. Sometimes a tree will become unfriendly and move the branch the vines grow on suddenly, causing you to miss your jump and fall to your death."

"You're not helping him any, Eridor!" Marlena retorted.

"Look, I'll show you," Eridor stated plainly. He deftly climbed down and took hold of the ropes, swiftly moving hand over hand down the rope. "You see? Perfectly safe!"

"Ma'Iir does not know..."

"Look," Marlena returned, turning to the young Khajiit. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll go first."

"No!" Ma'Iir suddenly exclaimed, then awkwardly turned his blue eyes to the ground.

"What? What is it?"

"Ma'Iir does not want you to go," he replied, still gazing at the ground. "Ma'Iir fears for your safety."

"It's perfectly safe," she repeated. "Trust me, I've been through worse situations than this."

"Do you promise?" Ma'Iir asked.

Marlena nodded. "I promise, Ma'Iir." She kissed his forehead, then made her way towards the rope.

Crixus was almost at the end of the rope. Behind him, the others were slowly making their progress. But while they were yet climbing, a fierce wind blew upon them from off the sea. Fiercer even than the gales Crixus had felt in the Jerall Mountains, the wind seemed to bite with a cold sting that even their clothing could not long keep out. Then suddenly Crixus cried out as a thin, shallow cut appeared across his face.

"The fuck kind of wind is this?" he roared.

"This is no wind," Marcurio answered. "It's the ice-wraiths. Keep your heads down and for gods' sake, don't show your neck!"

Marcurio then let go of the rope with one hand and threw a fire-ball outward into the wind. There was a wail like wind howling through stone, then a burst like the stone had struck ice, and a shower of tiny ice crystals fell towards the bottom of the canyon. Another gust of wind blew their way and Marcurio threw another fire-ball into it once more: another ice-wraith shattered and fell to the ground in a shower of crystals.

"Keep moving!" Crixus shouted to those behind him.

They tried their best to move against the ever-rushing wind, while Crixus finally reached the end of the rope. Here he too took to holding onto only one rope, the one he had shot, as he reached for his grappling hook which he had secured to his belt before: he would then climb up the rest of the icy shelf and thereby gain the top.

"Don't do that!" he heard Eisa shout out behind him. "Your hook will catch on the rope!"

"I don't have time to cut hand holds in the ice," Crixus added. "Besides, those would be too slippery."

Taking out the hook, backing up a bit from the wall and trying his best to hold on, Crixus gave it a good swing back and forth to build up momentum. Then, after a good six swings, he threw the hook towards the shelf. There was a sharp clang as the hook struck something hard, though they would not know if it were secure unless it was tested first. Crixus reached out with his right hand and pulled on the grappling rope: it was tight.

"Once you reach the wall," he called back. "Climb on up here."

Shifting his left hand onto the rope, Crixus then began pulling himself deftly up the rope onto the top of the shelf. Four years in Hammerfell, half of which was spent in the mountains looking for Dominion forces, had forced Crixus to learn how to climb rocks with nothing more than a pick and rope. If anyone could have conquered any mountain in Skyrim, were he faced against it with the prospect of climbing it, it would have been Servius Crixus.

Meanwhile, below, the gales of the ice-wraiths struck again. Marcurio threw a fire-ball at the wind and it sailed harmlessly off over the sea, where it exploded in a dull and distant poof.

"Keep your heads down!" Eisa shouted.

They all obeyed as another gust of wind tore into them. Ice smaller than they could see from the spiked and sharpened carapaces of the semi-visible wraiths tore flesh and skin, scratching them all like shattered glass. Suddenly there was a horrible ripping sound. Instinctively, Eisa and Marlena clung onto the rope on the far right, the one that Crixus fired. Ma'Iir froze and Eridor clung onto the rope on the far left. Near at hand, Crixus heard the arrow-heads grunt and the ice around them start to creak.

"Grab the other rope!" he shouted. "There's too many of you on the one rope."

"I think those wraiths might have damaged one of the ropes," Marlena called back.

All eyes turned towards Eridor, who was clinging onto the rope nearest to the wind. His black eyes were not afraid; in fact, Crixus admired his defiance in the face of death.

"Don't worry about me," he said to his comrades. "I'm a light-footed wood elf. I'll be alright."

"Keep moving, but slowly!" Eisa shouted to the others.

Crixus was now reaching onto the slippery edge of the shelf, pulling himself back onto his feet when the others slowly made their way after him. Looking back over, he saw Marcurio had now reached the grappling rope and took hold, carefully pulling himself upward. Looking down the rope further, he saw Eisa, Eridor and Marlena making their way swiftly towards the edge of the cliff: the Khajiit boy Ma'Iir, however, was frozen with fear in the middle of the rope.

"Wait!" he heard Marlena shout. "Ma'Iir's scared. I'll go back for him."

"I'll do it," Eridor stated. "I'm lither on these ropes."

"He trusts me," Marlena retorted. "He'll come if I..."

"Listen!" Eisa shouted back to her comrades. "If these ropes are breaking, they won't hold us any longer. Eribor, you're quicker on the ropes, go back and get him."

"I'll wait for him," Marlena stated.

"No!" Eisa retorted.

"He needs me, Eisa! He's scared!"

"We all are," Eisa returned. "But we can't let fear keep us from surviving! He won't last long out in Skyrim if he does that. Eribor, go, quickly!"

"Yes, sir!" he said jestingly.

Crixus watched as the wood elf turned around and went back for the boy. He rolled his eyes: in the War, he would have left the boy to die. Some may have called his words cruel, but they were necessary. He remembered when he joined the army, looking after his brother Venerius who had ran away from home to join: he was only fifteen at the time, his brother thirteen. All of the commanders treated him as a liability and, after the Battle of the Niben Bay, he realized that he _was_ a liability. Thus began his training as a soldier rather than as a page and his usefulness increased: he never found Venerius, though.

Marcurio's hands, blushing red under the cold grip of ice, reached the top of the shelf as he pulled himself up after Crixus. As he rose, Crixus saw a look of consternation in Marcurio's eyes.

"Those ropes aren't going to hold," he told Crixus.

"Which ones?"

"Both of them!" he muttered, keeping his voice low over the howl of the ocean winds. "The arrows are coming out of the ice."

"We're up, that's all that matters," Crixus replied.

"Fuck that!" Marcurio retorted, then looked down and held out his hand towards Eisa, who was making her way up the rope.

Meanwhile, Eridor had finally crossed the rope over to where Ma'Iir was hovering, shaking and shivering as he gazed down in fear at the yawning maw of the canyon looming beneath him.

"Come here, you little rascal," Eridor joked. "Let's get going."

"Ma'Iir cannot go another inch more!" wept the Khajiit, shaking his head.

"You have to, son," Eridor replied. "If you don't, you'll be stuck up here."

"Ma'Iir knew that something would happen," the boy replied. "Ma'Iir knew that bad things would happen if we went with him!"

"Look over there, son, don't you see?" Eridor asked, nodding with his head towards the other end of the ropes. "Marlena's there, waiting for you."

"Marlena is very beautiful," Ma'Iir added.

"Well, if you like humans," Eridor jested.

"Ma'Iir does not know about all humans," the boy replied. "Ma'Iir only knows that he loves..."

"I know, I know," Eridor replied, nodding his head understandingly. "I was your age once. Couldn't keep the girls off me. Do you see her over there?" Ma'Iir nodded. "She's waiting for you. She's a sweet girl, you know."

"Marlena is no girl!" Ma'Iir retorted. "Ma'Iir met girls in the orphanage. Marlena is a woman!"

"Yes," Eridor nodded. "And she believes in you. Look at her, she's waiting for you. She knows you can make it. Are you going to prove her wrong?"

"No!" Ma'Iir shook his head. "Ma'Iir wants to prove Marlena right, show her that he is strong and-and brave!"

"So come on, then," Eridor returned. "Hold onto my back..."

"No!" Ma'Iir repeated. "Ma'Iir must be brave on his own...for Marlena...right?"

"Then come on!" Eridor retorted. "Let's get going!"

The two figures began climbing the ropes as swiftly as possible. At the bottom of the grapple clung Marlena, looking out towards where Ma'Iir and Eridor were climbing towards her. From the top, Eisa was cheering them on. Now Ma'Iir was climbing as swift as possible, eager to feel Marlena's warm arms around him once again after the cold, biting embrace of the ocean winds. Turning around, Marlena told Ma'Iir to leap onto her back and that she would carry them both to the top. Warily at first the Khajiit boy held out his clawed hand and touched the back of her hooded fur coat: it was warm and he could smell her from where he was reaching. This made him confident and he pulled himself the rest of the way onto her back. Above, Marcurio and Eisa held the grapple secure against the extra weight. Marlena then turned to Eridor, who was almost upon them when suddenly the left rope shattered and fell to the side of the canyon, freed from the far side.

"Eridor!" Marlena shouted. "Here, take my hand!"

Marlena held out her gloved hand towards the wood elf, who was almost upon her. He reached out as well, clinging with one hand to the rope: their fingers brushed against each other. Then suddenly there was another crack as the arrow from Crixus' bow snapped in two and Eridor went sliding back towards the other side of the canyon wall. Marlena watched in horror as just about half-way across the canyon, the rope gave way from the other side and Eridor plunged down to the bottom. She called in vain after him, her voice dying upon her lips as the cold, Northern wind blasted the words apart even as they left her mouth.

* * *

**(AN: Once again I decided to divide one giant chapter into two, just to make my work a little bit easier.)**

**(I want to thank you for the reviews so far, please keep 'em coming! A lot of dramatic stuff, and Crixus' back-story, came to place here in this chapter. Yes, i realized that Eisa had left the White Watch band by the time she's at Frostmere Crypt, but that will be brought up in the next chapter.)**


	11. Behind Enemy Lines

**(AN: I've had trouble with the distances in my _Skyrim_ stories. For one, the world is so vast that i feel that three days doesn't seem like enough time to get from Whiterun to Windhelm by horse. Nevertheless, i have done a bit more research for this story, especially these last two chapters. I am in no ways as fit as a soldier should be and yet i can walk four miles in an hour and thirty minutes. Figuring in that with the evidence we had from the last chapter, that they had a late start after digging their way out of Snowpoint Beacon, even starting at ten o'clock, our heroes would have traveled thirty-two miles between that time and six PM, when the spring sun would have set. That seems like a decent size for the place in question, considering that all of Skyrim, based on one user's statement from a review of _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ that Skyrim is roughly the size of Poland, would be four hundred twenty-eight miles wide)**

* * *

**Behind Enemy Lines  
**

They all sat on the icy ground, frozen in shock. Eisa was speechless, while Marlena was shivering in sorrow, tears biting her cold cheeks. Ma'Iir clung to her, speaking into her ear quiet reassurances. Marcurio sat stunned, gazing towards the canyon they had all just crossed now: all of them save for Eridor. Meanwhile, Crixus removed the grappling hook from the ledge and stowed it back on his belt.

"Eridor was a good elf," Eisa grimly said at last. "He was the first friend I made after I left the White Watch band. I'll never forget him." She sniffled back tears. "Always joking in serious moments."

The wind howled between them for a good three minutes while Crixus looked towards the east, towards the high mountains which formed the backbone of the holds of Winterhold and Eastmarch. Turning south, he saw the snow-capped peaks that guarded the rear of Windhelm further south, the giant statue of Azura and snowy Mount Anthor. Turning west, he saw that the sun was making its way down towards a golden horizon. As it was still early spring, two hours or so of daylight were left before the valley and all of Tamriel were plunged into darkness.

"We need to keep moving," he spoke at last, rising up out of the snow and brushing off the seat of his pants. "The sun won't wait while we mourn."

"Just hold up a minute," Eisa interjected as she walked towards Crixus, a suspicious and un-trusting look in her blue eyes. "I feel like we deserve some answers from you, ass-hole."

"You deserve answers?" Crixus chuckled.

"How dare you laugh at a time like this!" Eisa shouted. "Three of my friends are dead...because of you. I've known them for three years, I've seen them shrug off saber-cats and bears like it weren't nothing. But then you show up and they just die. Three of my friends!"

"I didn't kill anybody," Crixus retorted. "People die, that's just what happens."

"Just who the fuck are you anyway?" she asked, anger rising in her voice.

"I'm nobody," Crixus returned. "Just as it should be."

"Nobodies don't get two strong, healthy Nords and a mer killed like that," Eisa retorted. "Nobodies don't act like people dying is some every day thing."

"But it is, though," Crixus retorted. "You're too young to remember, you and your precious little year in Cidhna Mine. I did nine years in the Imperial Legion: four during the Great War, five more after when my company was lost in the deserts of Hammerfell. I've seen mountains of bodies, of men I'd lived with, I'd fought with, played with, shared a drink with, told stories with. I know more about death than you'll _ever_ know!"

Eisa punched Crixus, but he parried her fist with his wrist, then brought up his fist for a blow, but she ducked under and, using her feet, rolled Crixus away, towards the ledge of the ice shelf.

"Stop!" Marlena shouted, her voice cracking through the tears. "Hasn't there been enough death as it is? Eisa, stop!"

Eisa was already on her feet, her ax in her hand and a murderous look in her eyes as she stared Crixus down. Looking back at Marlena, Eisa returned the axe to its sheath but did not help Crixus up onto his feet.

"We'll move alright," she nodded. "But after Windhelm, I hope never to see your face again."

While Eisa went to Marlena and Ma'Iir to rouse them up for the final leg of their journey, Marcurio walked over to Crixus and gave him a lift up onto his feet. The five of them that left the side of that icy cavern were a sorrowful and grim lot. Even jesting Marcurio said nothing to the others, staying at the rear with Crixus.

"Do you think I'm out of line?" Crixus asked.

"For what?" Marcurio whispered his reply.

"I didn't kill them," Crixus returned. "The Nord and his lover were killed by wolves and trolls, and Eridor fell because the ropes broke. How is any of that my fault?"

"I'm not saying it's your fault," Marcurio answered. "It's Skyrim. Not for naught is it one of the most dangerous places in all of Tamriel, right up there with Black Marsh and Morrowind. You know, some people say that the beauty of this land outweighs the dangers..." He scoffed. "...anyone who's said that hasn't been cornered by a troll in heat, or gored half to death by a gluttonous, territorial horker."

Crixus chuckled grimly. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

* * *

The going was slower now than it had been the rest of that day. The ground was hard and slippery and more than once somebody slipped and fell. Around them the landscape was changing: the rugged glacial ice was being replaced with thicker, more substantial ice that had fewer crevices pock-marked in its mass. Here and there they could see a few large mounds of ice jutting out of the main girth of the ground, but otherwise the land was still hard and slick.

An hour after Eridor's death, the way they were taking started to slope up and grow more soft and pliable. Piled deeps of soft, fluffy snow replaced the ice slowly by degrees, but whereas before they would have welcomed the snow, now it was only a hindrance. Climbing the sloping snow drifts felt like walking across a great dune of sand: each step brought them no nearer the summit than the last. To their left, exposed from the snow and ice that had concealed it for centuries, was the ancient city of Saarthal. None of them, however, harbored any interest in going thither.

Another hour passed and darkness was falling upon them. Far in the west the sun had disappeared behind the hills, plunging the valley into a deep blue shadow that heralded the coming of night. Crixus refused to stop for the night, as he was determined to reach Windhelm by the next day. Behind him, Eisa talked on about the only person she could think of at the moment: those who had died along the way.

"After the White Watch band," she said. "I left to join Kyr's band. I always called myself White Watch after that, because they were a feared and respected name in the holds. People would respect that. I met the others there; Ra'jirr wasn't much for no company, but I was. Akar and Savard were kind enough, once you got to know them. Eridor was a sure-shot, never missed a buck he aimed for. They left about three years ago, going to make it on their own as sell-swords. They invited me along, but I just couldn't leave Kyr's band. It was like a home to me."

"You know," Crixus interrupted. "For someone who takes no stock in the past, you seem to bring it up quite a bit."

"Is b*tching all you know how to do?" Eisa retorted angrily. "Can't you let someone mourn her friends' passing in her own way?"

"Fine, do whatever you want," Crixus replied. "Only I don't see the point of it if the past means nothing to you."

"Maybe _you_ can shut up, you Cyrodilian..."

"It's not worth it!" Marcurio said to Crixus, holding him back from striking out or making a retort. "Sometimes the best is to be silent."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "If I know the truth, why should I not share it with some people?"

"Because not everyone is ready for it," he added.

Uneasy silence followed as they passed by Saarthal. From there they followed the mountains to the south-east in a rough arc, keeping the large rocky hills between them and the cold sea-blown winds. As the darkness grew deeper, they turned north and went on for a while until, on the side of a cliff-face covered in snow, they halted.

"Why are we stopping?" Crixus asked.

"Is it the ice-wraiths?" asked Ma'Iir fearfully.

"There shouldn't be ice-wraiths here," Marcurio added. "It's never been confirmed, but there are rumors that ice-wraiths are the spirits of the ice-tribes which used to live in Skyrim during the Third Era, about the time the Nerevarine arrived in Vvardenfell. Vegard Stormcloak drove back an army of them from Eastmarch, so there haven't been many ice-wraiths in these parts since then."

"Why are we stopping?" Crixus repeated.

"Can't you tell?" asked Eisa. "It's night-time already! We're stopping for the night."

"No, we are not," Crixus shook his head. "We go on to Winterhold."

"We can't go on at night," she replied.

"You mean you _won't_ go on at night," Crixus corrected.

"We _ain't_ going on at night and that's that!"

"Oh, but that _isn't_ that," Crixus retorted.

"I've lost three of my best friends," Eisa returned. "Do you think I'm gonna walk on into the dark where you can do gods know what to the rest of them?"

"It is as Ma'Iir feared," muttered the Khajiit boy. "This one is not to be trusted. This one says things it does not mean, this one leads us into darkness and death!"

"Calm down, Ma'Iir," Marlena spoke softly, wrapping her arms around the young Khajiit.

"We've come this far," Crixus stated. "Do you think I'm going to delay just because you're afraid?"

"I ain't afraid of nothing!" she retorted.

"Prove it," Crixus returned. "Lead us to Winterhold."

"I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

"Too bad you didn't," Crixus smirked.

"Alright, that's enough!" Marlena retorted, stepping up and walking over to the two of them, stepping in between them. "Both of you, shut up and sit down. Look, we're all tired and sad and road-weary. We-we need to relax. If we push any farther, we might as well just sit down and freeze to death out here. We have all our gear, our tinder, our woolen clothes, even our food. There's no reason we can't camp here for the night and start off early in the morning."

"You see?" Eisa stated triumphantly to Crixus. "We're staying here."

Crixus groaned and Marlena turned to examine a place for their camp-ground. But just then, as she walked forward, the snow upon which she stepped gave way under her weight and she slid off the cliff on the left-hand side of their path. They all stepped back as the snow began to fall down: all of them save for Ma'Iir, who called out her name and reached after her in vain. Below there was a loud crack and a cry of pain, then another crack and all was silent.

"Marlena!" wept Ma'Iir. "Marlena, no!"

"There, do you see that?" Eisa asked, turning to Crixus. "Another one of my friends is dead because of you."

"Me?" Crixus asked. "I just wanted to keep on going."

"Well, congratu-fucking-lations, ass-hole," she retorted. "We move on. Marcurio, light a torch!" She then knelt down next to Ma'Iir, who was shivering with sorrow and with fear.

"It's okay," she whispered. "Everything's fine. I'm not going to let anything happen to you,"

"That one will be the death of us!" Ma'Iir muttered nervously. "He killed the big ones, then he killed the elf, and now he's killed the nice one...the one that Ma'Iir loved."

"I didn't kill anyone, you furry little piece of shite!" Crixus roared.

"Don't you dare yell at him!"

"I'll yell at anyone I want to!"

"I won't stand for this!" Eisa roared, drawing out her ax.

"Both of you, stop!" Marcurio interjected. "Gods, this is getting ridiculous! You know what, I think we should press on. If I remember the map correctly, Winterhold is near and we _need_ to spend some time away from each other."

"Away from _him_, you mean!" Eisa said, pointing to Crixus.

"That's enough!" he intervened again. "Let's just all calm down and then go on once we're..."

But at that moment, Ma'Iir took off, running back they way they had come down the snowy hill-side. Eisa took off after him and, sighing in frustration, Crixus and Marcurio followed them as well. The Khajiit boy's trail was easy to follow: all they had to do was follow Eisa's deep, heavily armored footprints. They went down at last to the bottom of the hill, where they saw Ma'Iir lying curled up next to something dark lying upon a stone painted red with blood. Taking his torch and examining the stone, Marcurio revealed that the body was that of Marlena. She had fallen from the cliff had bashed her head against the rocks on the way down. Now Ma'Iir was cradling her icy cold body, weeping hot tears onto her deathly-pale face.

Crixus, meanwhile, removed his gear and began searching for his tinder box and kindling. After striking a light, he took the makeshift torch and began looking around. It did not take him long to find it, nestled close to the side of the road: a path beaten into the snow by many feet going up and down. It led up a little ways into the darkness.

"Marcurio!" he called back. The apprentice wizard turned to him. "You did say the Winterhold mages were excavating Saarthal, right?"

"That's the rumor, at least," Marcurio replied.

"We just passed Saarthal an hour or so ago," he added. "This trail leads up into the mountains. I think we might just be close enough."

"Go then," they heard Ma'Iir mutter. "Go, all of you. Ma'Ir is staying here with Marlena."

"Ma'Iir," Eisa reasoned. "You can't stay out here. What if you're attacked by wolves?"

"Ma'Iir will not let them mess up her body," Ma'Iir retorted obstinately.

"But what about you?" Eisa asked. "You'll freeze to death if you stay out here all alone."

"Ma'Iir does not care," he shook his head. "He will wait until the moons unite him and Marlena forever."

"This is mad!" Eisa groaned as she lifted Ma'Iir up onto her shoulders like a sack of flour. Despite the crying, begging, kicking and scratching, she kept a good grip on him and made her way towards the path, following Crixus' light.

True to what Crixus had surmised, soon enough they arrived, frozen, weary and grief-stricken, into a back alley behind the streets of Winterhold. A hold guard bearing a torch found them and gave them directions to the Frozen Hearth Inn, where they might rest that night. Crixus paid the inn-keeper, a Nord man named Dagur, gold for their rooms and they fell asleep the moment they lay in them. The journey to Winterhold was finally over.

* * *

In the morning, Crixus made his way into the common room to find a grim Marcurio sipping quietly out of a cup. Before him were laid several old books which he seemed to be perusing all at once. Groaning and stiff, Crixus plopped himself in the chair opposite Marcurio while two children went running around the common room.

"So, where is the grand red-headed b*tch now?" Crixus asked.

"She left when I woke up," Marcurio replied. "Apparently Ma'Iir was nowhere to be found last night after we all went to sleep. She's been searching the entire town for him."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "At least we're here."

"_You're_ here," he stated. "And now you can go on to Windhelm on your own. Eisa made me write you out directions from here to the City of Ysgramor, said you can go do it yourself, since she's had enough of you."

Crixus chuckled. "I don't think we've seen the last of her yet."

"Maybe," he retorted. "Now shut up for once, I need to concentrate."

"What are you reading?" Crixus asked, snatching away one of the books and examining it. The top of the page was entitled 'Finding Your Inner Light' and in it were some words in a neat, illustrated manuscript text in the common tongue.

'_Despite what is generally accepted, light is not a morally biased entity, serving only some and not others. In its purest, most unadulterated form, light is a substance, as unfeeling and unbiased as the earth under our feet or the fires upon our hearths. In that respect, it is therefore impossible, and quite laughable, to believe that the basic elementary application of Alteration spells cannot be accomplished with anything less than a total understanding of the substance being altered._

_'To summon the Candlelight spell, no great incantations or secret rites are necessary. This is, in fact, one of the reasons that many novices of the School of Alteration magicka are taught this very useful spell early on. All that one needs is a knowledge of the essence of light, as discussed in the previous paragraph, and a visual experience with light (the so-called legend of Bram the Blind, the ancient Breton sorcerer who could conjure this spell though he was born blind, is therefore highly inaccurate and should be dismissed as such). Having this connection made, those who understand the subtle and intimate bond with which the magical plane of Aetherius has with our world can bridge the gap between our world and that by mere will. Merely imagining the light in the palm of your hands and willing it into being and there shall be light. The brightness and longevity of the spell, of course, is determined by the hydrated state of the caster as well as their own personal atunement to the plane of Aetherius.'_

"Books on magical theory?" Crixus asked.

"I'm learning new spells," Marcurio explained. "Seems that Candlelight would be a good place to start."

"Huh," Crixus mused as he looked over the book that he had picked up regarding 'Candlelight.'

"You never told me you were interested in magic," Marcurio stated.

"You never asked," Crixus replied.

"Well if you were interested in magic," Marcurio returned. "Why didn't you study at the Arcane University like I did?"

"What university?" Crixus asked. "The only ones I know of are the Hall of Learning in the Imperial City, the university in Bruma and the one in Cheydinhal. They only educate scholars and scribes and more men of higher learning. There hasn't been a functioning Arcane University since the Oblivion Crisis."

"Ah, but there has been," Marcurio began. "Operating behind the scenes, two groups have been keeping magicka alive in Cyrodiil since the Oblivion Crisis. Those two are the Synod and the College of Whispers."

"If they're so secret," Crixus asked. "How does a spell-sword know about them?"

Marcurio sighed. "Let's just say I have a little history with the latter one and leave it at that."

"Whatever you say," Crixus shook his head.

"That's where I got my basic training," Marcurio continued. "Publicly it's just a museum, what part of it the Dominion didn't destroy during the War. But underneath, the best and the brightest are still being taught the magic arts, what the Atmorans called 'the clever craft.'"

Crixus chuckled. "You're fucking with me."

"I'm not even jesting," Marcurio shook his head. "I've seen the engravings on the walls, had a translator at Riften read the old Nordic runes and read them back to me."

"Nords practicing magicka?"

"It's only been eighty years since the Great Collapse," Marcurio continued. "Before that, there was a history of the Nords practicing magic. Now, thanks to the Red Mountain, it's all changed."

"Poor College of Winterhold," Crixus returned. "Maybe somebody should do something."

"Maybe I will," Marcurio replied. "So why don't you go off to Windhelm while I stay here and read and maybe go in there and join them?"

"You? Join the College of Winterhold?"

"I might actually be able to learn something," Marcurio snickered. He then laughed.

"What is it?"

"Maybe it's the Honningbrew mead in me," he replied. "But I remembered why I liked you. You're rather charming when there aren't any Nords around."

"Is that too much to ask?" Crixus asked with a smile.

"Here in Skyrim, yes," Marcurio nodded. "So go do whatever you need to do, just stay safe and try to lighten up."

Crixus laughed Marcurio's suggestion off. "Do you have any idea if there is a general store around here?"

"There used to be five in each district of the city," Marcurio stated. "The only one that's left is Birna's Oddments across the street. Why, do you need more supplies?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I still have to find Windhelm, and I'm _very _late."

* * *

The deep and dead of night, the twentieth of First Seed. Servius Crixus was a day too late from his planned arrival in Windhelm. In the morning he had left the town of Winterhold, what little there was left of it, and went southward, following the road on the note which Eisa had directed Marcurio to draw. He had bought spare supplies at the only general store in Winterhold and went alone. Eisa and Ma'Iir be damned!

All day he wandered down the road, going as swiftly as he could upon the road, though it was a great chore. The road he was taking wound along the edge of the mountains he had seen afar off in the valley before, serving as an ineffectual wall on his right hand. But on his left there was a great gorge that fell away into a valley of snow and ice. At the bottom of said valley there lay the ocean, black and cold even in the daylight, covered as it was in clouds. A heavy wind blew off of the ocean, beating upon Crixus with a severity that made him wonder if the Sea of Ghosts was filled with ice-wraiths and if that had not been the root of its name.

Yet on he went, until the day passed on and night befell him. He had gone far on his own and swiftly, eating very little and drinking from the potion he had given the others while crossing the icy valley. It was a cordial especially brewed to numb the senses to the cold: he had bought three bottles from Bits and Pieces in Solitude and they had lasted him all this time, though he was down to only one bottle with less than half.

As the night began to fall, he left the road. From his last look at the map, he assumed that he was drawing near to Windhelm, but the sun, which had already fallen behind the large mountain to his right, cast no light beyond him. To that end, he chose to leave the road and climb the mountains to the north of the city and thereby avoid any sentries that might be patrolling the road. What he did not know, however, was that no road came to Windhelm from the north. The road he had been following turned south-west and, by and by, led to Mount Anthor and around to southern Eastmarch. Even if he had known, he cared not: he would cross the mountains.

The Candlelight spell he had was enough to give him a little light, even in the darkness, but he was still a novice at magicka and it did not give off enough light as he would desire. Nevertheless, it was enough for his purpose. He found in the sides of the mountain paths, carved out long ago by some creatures: dire-wolves, mountain-goats or trolls. These paths were perilously narrow and Crixus had very little room on which to set his foot. The higher up he went, the paths grew narrower and the will-o-the-wisp orb of Candlelight cast no light down into the deep chasm to his left.

The hours passed by slowly and chillingly in the land under the night sky. The Northern Lights shone faintly in the western sky, but Crixus gave them no heed. His was to keep from falling or freezing to death. The path he was following was now turning around the southern face of the cliff and around back to the western side, out of his way. Taking a moment to pause and try to take a breath from the thin, cold night air, Crixus cast his Candlelight spell again and held his hand downward. The incline here was not very steep and there was a good amount of snow to slide down on, though he knew that at any moment his foot could hit a rock and, while sliding, it could very easily break a leg. As far as his light could see, there were no rocks in the snow beyond, just a white drift extending down like a sheet laid out before him. Taking out his grappling hook, Crixus shifted himself down until he was sitting on the cold stony ledge. There would be no going back if he pushed off. No one was there to grab his hand or offer him a rope: with the lack of light, it was practically leaping into the dark.

Crixus took three deep breaths, then slid off the side of the incline. Almost immediately he felt that he was going too fast and reached for his grappling hook. With his right hand he held it into the snow, but though it kicked up quite a bit of white flakes behind him, it did not seem to slow his descent. With his left hand he held aloft the Candlelight spell, guiding his way down the snowy slope. Then he saw, just ahead of him, a large outcropping of rock jutting out of the snow. It was coming up fast and he had to think fast to escape this or else risk breaking both of his legs when he hit the rock. Pushing off against the snow with his thighs, Crixus threw the grappling hook towards the rock, hearing a clang as it struck rock and a sudden jolt as he was stopped on his way down. He had to force down a cry of pain as he felt his arms being pulled apart by the weight of his own body: for the moment the grappling hook held and he was safe.

But it didn't last. The rope, which he thought was secure, had finally broken after five people climbing up it and being jerked straight by sudden use: now he was free-falling into a drift of snow, which collapsed as he hit it and sent him flying down the rest of the way into more snow. Aching from the fall, Crixus got up and examined himself: no limbs were broken, only aching. In fact the only thing that was broken was the rope of his grappling hook. Angrily he reached for the spare rope he had purchased at Birna's Oddments before he left, cut out the old knot and with freezing fingers retied the new one. Slowly he rose back to his feet and began focusing on light.

Light. It was all around him. He could see lights above him, the soft glow of lights just behind a pane of glass and the flicker of dim torch-lights in the cold night's wind. He was not alone and they would see his Candlelight spell if he cast it, even if their torches shed little light of their own. Cursing under his breath, he felt his way in the dark like a blind man until he found the snow ending before a giant wall of stone. But it was not the rough, hard and weather-beaten stone of the mountains, but smoother stone, with grooves in between from where ancient mortar had fallen away over the years. Carefully he felt around the wall, seeing that it was higher than he was, though he could not rightly guess how high without proper light. Finally he came to a point where the wall turned inward for a cubit, then went on for another three cubits before it turned outward again and continued on: there was a depression in the wall, a shaft by which he might be able to climb it with the rope.

Stepping back again and hoping to luck, since he could not properly see, he removed his grappling hook on the new rope, swung it around three times and then let it fly upward as high as he could throw it. There was a clank and he held his breath, wondering if those lights up top, whom he guessed belonged to guardsmen, heard him. When he heard a laugh, he sighed quietly, then felt the rope: it seemed to be tight. He then began climbing slowly up the alcove in the wall, walking up with one foot on each side of the depression and both hands upon the rope. As he climbed, he could hear voices above him talking in the thick Nordic accent he hadn't stopped hearing since he entered Skyrim. He paused for a moment as he realized, with dread, that they were talking about him.

"I swear it, Torvald!" one voice insisted. "I saw something over yonder, up in them mountains a'hind us. Looked like a light, bobbing or falling, or whatever."

"Plenty o' time to drink when you're off duty, Regin," the one called Torvald replied with a chuckle.

"I weren't drunk, I swear!" Regin retorted. "There was a light, as sure as day, coming down them mountains to this here city!"

"Then I'll tell you what you seen," Torvald explained. "What you seen is either a ghost or something fishy from that there wizard's College up north. Them mountains is just south o' Winterhold, so there ain't no telling what horrors them crazy wizards is conjuring up there."

"Pah!" Regin spat. "Damn wizards! There's only one thing a man can trust in this here world, and that's good steel."

"That's the truth of it!" chuckled Torvald in affirmation.

Holding onto the rope with one hand, Crixus pulled out a knife from his leg and placed it between his teeth as he continued his climb. The voices were growing louder as Crixus was getting nearer and nearer the top of the wall. At last he saw the top and the glow of torches nearby. Carefully he pulled himself up over the crenelated peak of the wall and began climbing down onto the parapet when suddenly he heard a sword being drawn nearby.

"Alright, sneak-thief," the one called Regin said. "That's far enough now. Why don't you put that there knife down and we can all go down to the barracks for a nice talk?"

In light of the guard's torch, Crixus could see the two guards, both of them clad in blue with a hold guard's masked helmet. The other one had removed an axe behind him and was also gazing at him, ready to strike. But Crixus was fast. In one move, he removed the dagger from his mouth and threw it at the guard, striking the nearest one in the neck and sending him down.

"Assassin!" Torvald shouted.

Crixus didn't waste any time as he pulled out the next knife and lunged at the guard, burying the blade in his throat with one swift jab and sending him down. The other guard he turned to, plucked out his knife and slit the throat just to be safe. Someone would have heard the outcry, and if they hadn't, they would be missed soon. Picking up one of their torches, Crixus saw a high, sweeping roof just before him and just in reach. Throwing the torch off the side of the wall, he deftly pulled himself up onto the snowy roof and began walking, then stopped as he realized that he was making marks in the snow.

"Fuck!" he whispered to himself. If only he had a cloak and could drag it behind him to obscure his tracks. But there was no time to worry about this as he had to move. The roof he walked was steep and some snow fell off the roof and down into the darkness below. Worse yet, there were windows to his left, out of which streamed light which he had to climb over in order to evade being spotted by whoever might be within.

On and on he ran until he saw another roof lying directly before him. Leaping up he clung to it and carefully balanced his way across this one. There were no windows in this roof and so he was safe. But just below, on the wall that seemed to surround the roofs on which he was walking, there were guards walking about. He bit his tongue and moved as quietly as possible to avoid detection.

Then, as if his luck suddenly chose to run out at the worst possible moment, the roof on which he was walking abruptly ended. Below him was another roof and he came to a skidding halt as he tried not to fall down onto it. But even carefully moving as he did, his feet did not land securely and he went sliding down the roof onto the wall. He knew with certainty that if there were any guards nearby, they heard him. As soon as his feet touched stone, he leaped towards the edge of the wall and lowered himself down onto another roof angled the other way. He slid down again, his feet finally touching snow-covered pavement. Servius Crixus had arrived in Windhelm at last.

* * *

**(AN: This chapter went through two titles before i settled on this one, as well as some [more] sparks flying about how Crixus should enter Windhelm. You see, despite the fact that my brother sees the Nords as ignorant savages rolling around in their own shit, getting drunk and fighting anything that doesn't look like them [like Crixus and most of the _Elder Scrolls_ fans on tumblr and here, it seems], he believes that Windhelm has an elaborate sewer system by which he wanted Crixus to make his grand entrance to Windhelm. His reason being...get this...because _Oblivion_ did it first, therefore it should be in _Skyrim_ [and there's a sewer hole in Solitude that makes a sound, but that wasn't his primary reason].)**

**(We also have a little bit more of character development on the creative side...and no reviews at all from the other side.)**


	12. Old Friends

**(AN: Okay, now here comes more "fun" for those of you who are reading this who don't like the Stormcloaks [which, from the fics i've seen on here, would be most of you]. But, thankfully, there is a little bit more interesting stuff than that in this chapter. We also get to see two other characters get their introduction, one of which I intend to make the main character in _Hammerfell_, the spin-off/sequel to this story. I want your opinions on said character if they will make a good main character for a story set in Hammerfell, any suggestions about said character, what you would want to see from them, etc.)**

**(Enjoy)**

* * *

**Old Friends**

It did not take Crixus long to lose pursuit once he was in the streets. They were dark and he clung to the shadows like a spider. Slowly but surely he crept through the streets, coming to what appeared to be a large town center with a long wooden structure built upon a raised platform of old stones. He swiftly stowed away into the inn and paid the inn-keeper, a middle-aged Nord woman with red hair fading to gray, from what had been Eisa's purse. It wasn't his fault that she had other things on her mind besides money and never bothered to demand to be paid. He had the money and she didn't, that was all that mattered to him.

The Nord woman directed Crixus to the top of the hall, to a room on one of the side corridors and there he promptly fell asleep, exhausted from a long night in the cold. When morning came and he realized that he was not only still alive but still inside the drafty wooden inn, he got up and made his way down-stairs, to a great common room in the center of the long structure. While he was looking about, a young Nord woman with blond hair and a dress that revealed quite a bit of her ample bosom walked over to him.

"Gods be praised!" she exclaimed. "It's been a while since a handsome man has walked into Candlehearth Hall, what with the war going on and all."

Crixus turned around, eying the young beauty up and down. She certainly had the bust and the hips that he enjoyed, though he could have sworn she was older.

"Didn't you have red hair?" he asked.

"Oh, that was Elda Early-Dawn, the proprietor of the inn," the young woman replied. "I'm Susanna, I help around here. Can I get you anything?"

"Your strongest beer and some breakfast, for a start," Crixus winked. The young Susanna smiled at him and then went on her way. While Crixus was standing, he heard the older woman call out to him.

"Don't you be getting fresh with Susanna, stranger!" she warned.

"She was coming on to _me!_" Crixus retorted.

The older woman rolled her eyes. "She flirts with everybody who comes here; men, women...dark elves." The last words she stated with a sneer, as though they were odious to her mouth. "It's all for the tips. If you want whores, you'll have to go to the Grey Quarter. Talos knows those dark elf women will sleep with anything!"

Crixus was about to make a retort when he heard an old man laughing from across the common room. It was a strange laugh, higher than one would expect from a man or from one so old, and yet full of merriment and good feelings despite everything Crixus connected with that voice. Turning towards where he heard the voice, he saw an old Redguard, one of the Mapitu - those Ra Gada who had intermingled with the native humans of Tamriel and therefore were not High Yokudan - who wore the traditional clothing of the people of Hammerfell, with a helmet bound in a turban with a tapering spire. His hair was still dark, though he was decisively older than Crixus, and his beard was thick, bushy and unkempt.

"Shaddar!" Crixus exclaimed, walking towards the older man.

"By Satakal!" the old Redguard replied. "Servius, you old war dog!" He was laughing his high, hearty laugh as he wrapped his arms around Crixus' shoulders in an embrace. Redguards did not have the same qualms about personal boundaries that the mainland people of Tamriel had, especially in regards to two friends reuniting. Shaddar was the closest thing Crixus had to a friend, aside from Idgrod the Younger, anywhere in Tamriel.

"What brings you to this shite-hole of a country?" Crixus asked.

"I am a man of free enterprise, as you are well aware," Shaddar replied, a smile on his face. "The port of Windhelm is open to me and the Red Dog whenever we choose."

"Still a pirate captain, eh?" Crixus asked.

"That word is very uncouth," Shaddar retorted. "If anything, I am a gentleman corsair, engaging in...aggressive trading."

"Still the same, old friend," Crixus chuckled. "Come on, let's have a drink."

"Oh, yes, of course!" Shaddar continued. "How rude of me! How can I deny you this favor? Come, Rayya, meet my friend."

Crixus saw a young Redguard woman, who seemed to be half-way between Mapitu and High Yokudan, dressed in steel armor styled in the local fashion of the Nords. Her head, however, was bound in a traditional Redguard _tagelmust_ and was a dark violet color.

"Rayya, this is Servius Crixus!" the older man said, introducing his younger companion to Crixus.

"Enchanted," Crixus replied with a raise of his eyebrow.

"It is pleasant to meet you, Servius Crixus," she returned. "I've heard quite a bit about you as a child and the captain has told me even more. It's good to meet the hero of the Battle of the Blooded Vale."

Crixus nodded silently. That pass between the Dragontail and the Wrothgarian Mountains had many names: it was Belkarthi in the ancient Ra Gada tongue, Llywyn to the Bretons and after the Battle, it was called the Blooded Vale by the locals and Red Dog in Cyrodiil after the wolf's coat Crixus wore on his back, stained red with blood. As awkward silence passed between them, Shaddar spoke up suddenly.

"Ah! There it is, praise Satakal! The perfect table for our drink. Come come, we must take it before someone else does!"

The three of them walked over to the table and sat down, Shaddar on one side and Rayya to his left with Crixus across from both of them. Shaddar then called out to Susanna for a drink while Rayya examined Crixus with disapproving eyes.

"So, you're in the Imperial Legion, right?" she asked.

"Yes, that's right," he nodded.

"Fucking things up, just like you do best," Rayya commented.

"Now see here..." Crixus began, but Shaddar interjected.

"Please, there is no reason to be upset!" he said. "We can all be friends and yet have differing opinions. Please, friend Crixus, forgive Rayya. She is very...mindful about our people. Me, on the other hand, I am a corsair captain. Politics are not a battle I choose to fight, only that which leads to profit."

"Even so," Rayya continued. "The Empire comes running to Skyrim to stop one rebellion? What about Hammerfell? Why did your Emperor Titus sell us out to the Dominion and then leave us to fend for ourselves?"

"Emperor Mede bought peace with the White-Gold Concordant," Crixus stated.

"He let the Dominion win!" she retorted.

"The Empire has to stand together," Crixus stated. "Or else the Dominion will sweep us all away."

"You never answered my question," Rayya continued. "Why did the Empire forsake Hammerfell? Why were my people less important than these pale-skinned barbarians?"

"At least we agree on one thing," Crixus smiled.

"What's that?"

"We both hate Nords." he chuckled.

"I don't hate Nords," Rayya replied. "Are they a backwards people? Yes. But they are skilled warriors, and that is something I can respect. I'm on my way to Falkreath now to become a huscarl."

"A what?" Crixus asked.

"A 'house-man', or woman as the case may be," Rayya continued. "You Colovians might call them 'housecarls'. They're armed servants, bodyguards of the local lords and their thanes."

"But that is not all, is it?" Shaddar stated, turning to Crixus. "No, by all means, no! We are also here to recruit members for our ship the Red Dog." The ship was a caravel, an old design used in Hammerfell by the natives, named after Crixus and the Battle of the Red Dog Pass. At this point, young Susanna walked over to the table, leaning over to present her cleavage to her customers as she placed their drinks upon the table.

"Here you go," she smiled, then leaned to Crixus' ear and whispered. "You didn't hear it from me, but if you want a real drink, try the corner-club in the Grey Quarter." Crixus nodded as Susanna walked over to Shaddar and repeated the same thing, then added the same to Rayya before leaving.

"Perhaps you would be interested?" Shaddar asked at last. "Now that you're out of Mournhold, perhaps you can be of some use to somebody. I always told you there was no profit to be had in Mournhold! There is nothing in Morrowind for anyone, even the Dunmer can only find sorrow there."

"Unfortunately," Crixus replied. "I'm not a pirate, or privateer, so I'm not free to do as I want."

"Then what brings you to Windhelm, so far away from..." Shaddar leaned in. "...loyalist holds?"

"I need to know what Ulfric Stormcloak is up to," Crixus whispered back.

"That's easy, ask the guards," Shaddar laughed. "They are all Stormcloaks, the Windhelm city guards. They will tell you what you need to know."

Crixus scoffed. "Don't fuck with me, old man!"

"I do not fuck with you, only with women," Shaddar jested. "And I am not old! I am only six years beyond your count!"

"Nobody would be that stupid to blather on about their plans to just some common villain in a dimly-lit tavern! Not even Nords would be that stupid!"

"Perhaps," Shaddar explained. "But when you get enough drink in them, tongues will wag, even Nordic ones."

"I'll have to see that," Crixus muttered, picking up his tankard and taking a drink. It was strong, but he had drunk stronger drink before and enjoyed the burning sensation and the bitterness. "So, what's the latest news around here?"

"Why do you ask me?" chuckled Shaddar. "I am only visiting to let Rayya go on her way! I must be back to the ship soon, I have barely enough time to enjoy food and drink with an old friend. Ask that pretty little serving girl if she knows."

Crixus looked around and saw Susanna walking by their table, a wooden platter in her hands. Reaching out, he gave her hips a firm pat, which got her attention immediately.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

"Come here!" he gestured towards their table.

"Was that really necessary?" she asked. "You could have just called for me!"

"Over this?" Crixus asked, gesturing around to the inn. True enough there was quite a bit of noise in the hall. The fire crackled on the hearth, Elda shouted out orders from the bar, several Nords were gathered around two large pit fighters engaged in a friendly - and loud - arm wrestle at one table, while in one corner a few bards were playing through an old song about the Second Era, when there was unity between even Nords and Dunmer, while several drunken guards at another table sang along.

Susanna rolled her eyes. "So what did you need?"

"What's the latest news in town?" Crixus asked.

"I really have to get back to the tables," Susanna replied as someone shouted for their drinks. "Just ask Elda, she's bound to know."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then turned back to the two Redguards before him. Shaddar quietly drank his soup while Rayya was carving up her roasted venison. Crixus took a bite of one of the potatoes on his plate, baked over a slow fire: they were soft and earthy and slightly crisp from the heat. He wondered if he could find some butter to go with them, then suddenly he smirked as he placed the potato down and told the others that he would return. Deftly he made his way to the bar, where Elda was busy cleaning off a spill from a rather drunk Nord who had just stepped out.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

"Some butter," Crixus stated. "And some news."

"News?" Elda chuckled. "Well, you've come to the right place. Hardly anything passes through Windhelm without me hearing about it. Say, have you heard about the Butcher?"

Crixus shook his head.

"Someone's been killing young girls in the town at night," Elda began. "Probably one of them dark elves, angry about something. Oh, it was a mistake for the High King to let them live in Skyrim. This here's our land and should belong to us!"

"Whatever," Crixus rolled his eyes as Elda placed a small jar of butter before him. "Anything else?"

"Well, there is one thing," she added. "Folk have been hearing strange noises coming out of the old Aretino residence on the east-side of town. Almost like chanting, they say. Word is that little Aventus has returned to Windhelm and is trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood."

Crixus paused at this. The name was familiar. He remembered Ma'Iir mentioning an Aventus in regards to the orphanage in Riften. Furthermore, it amazed him to hear the Dark Brotherhood's name being mentioned publicly. As a child, he was always fascinated by the rumors and legends about the secretive coven of assassins, striking from the darkness and leaving no trace of their actions. Everyone in Anvil said the Dark Brotherhood were a myth, and in Mournhold the Morag Tong were the legal and widely known assassination guild as well as the _only_ one.

"The Dark Brotherhood?" Crixus asked.

"Sure," Elda returned. "Ain't you heard of them?"

"Well, I have," Crixus answered. "But all I've heard is that they're just a myth."

Elda laughed. "Imperials, they think they know it all. We Nords might not be as civilized or genteel as the nicer folk down south in the Heartlands, but we're clever enough to know that when someone dies in their own bed in the middle of the night, it ain't because of some idiot had a bone to pick with him, it's because of the Dark Brotherhood. They can brawl outside the town walls or challenge each other to a fight like the old way."

"Right," Crixus nodded cynically, then picked up the jar of butter and returned to his table. Though he did not appear interested, what he had heard was more than interesting for his tastes. To actually be in a place where the legendary Dark Brotherhood were spoken of or, better yet, could be found, was more than what Crixus could have possibly imagined.

While he was sitting down to butter his potato, loud raucous laughter burst forth from the table of the guards. Shaddar gestured towards them with one finger of the hand that held his cup up to his lips. Crixus wordlessly opened his eyes in a quizzical response, to which Shaddar nodded gently. Placing his cup down, Crixus walked over to the table, swallowed his pride and called out to the guards in his friendliest voice:

"Let's have a round on me, then!"

Everyone at the table cheered for him and called for Susanna to set down their orders. As Crixus took his seat, he tried to keep from vomiting: the stench of beer upon the breath of all at the table was so great that even he could barely stand it. Furthermore, some of them smelled of sheep and goats, which made him less than comfortable.

"So, friend, what brings you here to Windhelm?" one of the guards asked.

"Are you in for the pit fights in the Arena?" asked another.

"Perhaps he's come to join the fight against the Empire!" another added, which brought loud cheers from them all.

"Actually, I'm a sell-sword," Crixus replied. "Seeking adventure in the dangerous land of Skyrim, selling my life at every dimly-lit tavern along the way."

"A man who lives by the steel of his sword!" another cheered. "No better man than that, eh?"

"Except Ulfric," the first guard slurred. "He knows what's best for our people, keeping them elf-loving Imperials from taking away _our_ traditions!"

"Bah!" another retorted. "And I say he ain't done enough yet! If Ulfric's really for the people of Skyrim, he'd kick them red-eyed cutthroats out of our city and back to Morrowind where they belong!"

"Aye!" a sixth shouted. "Skyrim for the Nords!"

"At least he ain't taking no chances with them scale-back lizards," the fourth one stated. "Keep 'em on the docks where they can't hurt no one."

"I hear that it was a good thing he kept them out of our streets," said the first one. "There'd be fights between the dark elves and the lizards if they were allowed into the city."

"Bah, let 'em kill each other!" the second one slurred. "We don't need their kind here!"

Just as it seemed that Crixus couldn't take much more of their drivel, Susanna finally arrived with their drinks. All of the Nords greedily reached for the nearest mug and were just about ready to drink when Crixus took his and held it up.

"What shall we drink to?" he asked.

"To victory!" the first one said.

"To Skyrim!"

"Bloody battles at day and salty maidens at night!"

"Let's drink to Ulfric!" Crixus added.

"Aye!" the all shouted, then added with one voice. "To Ulfric!" They drained their mugs while Crixus slowly sipped his, turning to the one on his right.

"So, you think Ulfric will win the war?" he asked.

"Of course he will!" the first one slurred, spewing beer from his bearded lips. "He has the Voice, the ancient tongue of the Greybeards and the Dragonborn of legend! Rumor has it that he killed the High King with his Voice: shouted him apart! Perhaps he may even _be_ the Dragonborn!"

"Bah!" snorted the fifth guard. "Maybe _I'm_ the Dragonborn and I just don't know it yet."

"There hasn't been a Dragonborn in two hundred years," the third guard slurred. "Why should there be one now?"

"Why shouldn't it be Ulfric?" asked the first one. "He's escaped capture by the Imperial Legion for nigh three months, ever since he challenged the High King. What's that say if not that Talos is on his side?"

"Maybe he's just clever?" asked the fourth guard. "Besides, if Talos _were_ on his side, why is more than half of Skyrim _not_ on his side?"

"They're fools and liars, paid off by the Empire, no less," the first one stated. "The Jarl of Markarth sold Ulfric out to the Empire once them elves put the pressure on him. From what I hear, the other Jarls are just glorified cunts. Siddgeir of Falkreath just eats, drinks and fucks with no regard to rule and Idgrod of Morthal don't even rule! And Elisif's even worse!"

Crixus lowered his head, trying desperately to keep from bursting out at the ignorance around him. Aside from the insult towards Elisif, the words they had spoken about Ulfric made him wary. What dark, evil force was this Voice that gave someone the power to shatter a man to pieces?

"What about Balgruuf?" the fifth guard asked. "From what I hear, he's a proper Nord. Keeps Talos worship in Whiterun."

"Bah!" the first one snorted. "Anyone who thinks Whiterun is neutral's a damn fool. Balgruuf is playing both sides, waiting to see which one takes the upper hand a'fore he makes his move."

"Then he won't have long to wait," the second guard added. "I have it on good authority that Ulfric will make an attack against Whiterun before the year is out."

Crixus happened to cast his eyes back towards Shaddar, who lifted his drink to him and smiled in a self-congratulatory way. Crixus nodded, then turned back to the others.

"Why?" asked the first guard. "Morthal's where the hurt should be put on the Empire, good and hard!"

"Hjaalmarch ain't nothing but a swamp," sneered the second guard. "As far as I hear it, Ulfric _is_ that clever. He ain't just gonna storm into Solitude and kill General Tullius, no. He wants all of Skyrim to recognize him as the High King. So he's gonna make sure he's got the other Jarls on his side when he strikes for Solitude. Whiterun's always been the lynch pin in unifying Skyrim throughout our history, Ulfric knows this."

"So you think Ulfric will attack Whiterun?" asked Crixus.

"Think?" snorted the guard. "It's a guarantee."

Crixus then nodded, placed a few golden coins on the table for their drink, then walked back to where Shaddar and Rayya were waiting for him.

"Did you find out what you wanted to hear?" Shaddar asked. Crixus nodded. "It is as I said. Now, if you will please pardon me, I have to get back to my ship."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "The hard dry land making your old wounds ache?"

"I have more than recovered from my war wounds, old friend," Shaddar returned. "I can still swing a sword as fiercely as when I was younger. But you, my good Servius, to you I extend my offer once again to join my crew if you are willing."

"What would that look like, a former commander serving under his subordinate?" Crixus asked.

"I am not with the Empire anymore, my friend," Shaddar returned. "It will not be inappropriate."

"I still have much to do here," Crixus replied.

"As you wish," Shaddar nodded. "But if ever I or the Red Dog can service your cause, we are both of us at your disposal."

"Always faithful, old Shaddar," Crixus smiled, embracing the older man.

"Come to see me again as soon as possible," Shaddar continued. "We should do this again very soon." The old man rose from the table, placed a few golden crowns - the currency in Hammerfell - upon the table, then walked out of the inn. Once he was gone, Rayya looked up at Crixus.

"Are you leaving yet?" she asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "There are some things here I might have to look into."

"Well," she replied. "Before you go, let me just apologize for my outburst. I hold you no ill-will, despite your...political affiliations. I think first and foremost of my people, as you think first and foremost of the Empire. I hope that, like the old man said, we can agree to disagree."

"If you say so," Crixus returned.

"I will be in Falkreath if you need me," Rayya retorted. "The gods be with you."

"They never were," Crixus replied.

* * *

**(AN: Thankfully this chapter was mercifully shorter than the last several!)**

**(-sigh- some stuff i didn't like in this chapter, but had to write since everyone who reviewed _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_ were upset that elves were depicted as racist asses [like they were in the much-beloved _Morrowind_], so there you go, more Nord racism. Oh don't worry, there will be more in the next chapter. It will be everything you will have been waiting for since every other fan-fic on here!)**

**(On a better note, Shaddar appeared again. I always envisioned him as very friendly and jovial, though he is, of course, ruthless in battle. We also have Rayya making her appearance. Like in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, she's complex. She doesn't hate Nords the way Crixus does, but she does believe them to be uncivilized compared to her people or the Empire. Furthermore, while she doesn't hate Crixus particularly, she does hold a grudge against the Empire for abandoning the Redguards by giving away half of Hammerfell to the Dominion. That arc, of course, will have changed by the end of Crixus' story. But other than that, what do you think her character needs more of?)**


	13. Dun and Pale

**(AN: Here we go, more of everyone's favorite subject: how evil the Stormcloaks are! I think it goes without saying that this is NOT my personal opinion. But since this is Crixus' story and that this little arc will have a completion somewhere along the line, it needs to be shown. Also...well, if you've seen the other fan-fics on here, you know the other reason)  
**

**(But of course we also need the plot to continue, so here we go with something also much beloved...and some creepy parts)**

* * *

**Dun and Pale**

Crixus had more or less of what he wanted, though he knew that rumor would not be enough to convince General Tullius. He had to find his way to wherever Ulfric was and listen to it from his very lips. But as he left Candlehearth Hall, he cast his eyes eastward instead of north, towards the high-roofed Palace of the Kings. What he had heard about the Dark Brotherhood from the inn-keeper intrigued him: he wanted to at least go to the Aretino residence and see if the boy really did know how to contact the Dark Brotherhood.

Going as directed, he left the main drag around Candlehearth Hall and passed nearby a house that seemed no different than the others he had seen in Windhelm: a foundation of grey stone bricks with a two-story wooden house built atop it and a sloping roof. The only really peculiar thing about the house was that it straddled the road-way like an arch. As he walked towards the house, he could hear a group of children chattering with a Dunmer woman. The talk seemed to be about Aventus Aretino and whether or not he would come out and play with them. Crixus swiftly walked over to the door, crouching down in the corner to avoid the eyes of the children. He came to the door of the house, which he assumed would be locked. Into his pocket he reached, to something he kept as close to his heart and as secure on his person as the bundle of letters: a lock-picking kit.

It was not very large, only a few metal picks upon a key-chain, including the spare key to his office in Mournhold. Drawing out from his belt another knife he kept on his person at all times, he slid them both into the lock and began turning them about gently, his ear pressed against the wood as close to the lock as he could reach while still getting a good look at it. When he heard the click he smiled: it had been a while since he had to pick a lock and forgot how well-skilled he was at doing it. Gently he pushed open the door and crept inside.

There was not much in the room, just a narrow wooden hall with a wooden stairway at the end leading upstairs. There was no light on the bottom story, not even a candle lit on the off-chance of a visitor. Crixus quietly crept up to the first stair, but before he set his foot on it, he felt he heard a gentle creaking in the wooden walls of the room. Looking around, he assured himself that no one was there, yet when he turned again, there was a faint whisper of wind flowing through the cracks in the wooden boards of the wall; or was it a scream, soft like a woman's flesh yet so piercing that no amount of softness could disperse its terror?

Mustering himself, Crixus set foot on the bottom step. In the darkness, he reached out to feel his way up, feeling at first rough wooden steps that splintered into his gloved hands. Then he felt something strange: his hand passed through icy cold water. But the water was not on the step in a little pool, it was just above it, hanging as if suspended in mid-air with no vessel to hold it up. He pulled back his hand, rolling his fingers back into a fist. He was not entirely afraid of ghosts, but since he had no silver weapons, he knew not how to defend himself should something attack.

But what was there? Taking a step closer, the floating cold water was gone. Had he all imagined it? But he definitely felt something: something had been there to cause that feeling like water, and it was not the wind. Then something like a low, sickly groan rattled all around him; the very wooden beams seemed to be moving with the noise. The closer he got, he could smell rottenness just beyond him, as if something were decaying just beyond. Then he heard a sound like a dull knife pounding against the wood and a young boy's voice blubbering through tears as he said something that sounded half like a chant and half like frustration.

"Sweet Mother...Sweet Mother..." he cried. "Send your...child...unto me. For the...sins of the...unworthy...oh, why won't you listen to me? The sins...of the unworthy...must be...baptized...Please! In blood...and f-...How long must I do this? So...tired...I'm so tired. The sins of the un...I keep praying, Night Mother! Why won't you answer me? The sins of the unworthy...soon, it'll happen...that old b*tch'll get hers...the sins of the unworthy...must be...baptized...in blood and...in blood and f...in b-die Grelod, die!"

Each step closer, Crixus could feel his heart beating against his chest as the wood creaked and the wind screamed around him in the cold, dark hallway. With each step, he could feel a will like strong hands all around him. But were they pushing him out or trying to keep him in? Just ahead, light glistened from the bottom of the door at the top of the stairs. After the walk in darkness, he feared the light: just what was behind there and why was the boy crying and beating on the floor?

But the urge to know was greater than his fear and Crixus grabbed for his lock-picks and knife in the darkness as the boy's voice continued its sobbing chant. Carefully he turned the lock, trying desperately to keep from groaning in frustration at the chant or the sniveling of the boy. He almost dropped the knife at one point and only barely he caught it, feeling the tip poking into his hand. Once more he felt the knife back into the hole and held it in place as the pick turned about this way and that until it clicked.

"..._must_ be baptized in blood and fear," the boy said as Crixus gently pushed the door open.

Inside, though the room was lit with candles here and there, it was not much less gloomy than the stairwell. The boy sat in a circle of small candles whose light flickered with his every movement, whether of his hands sweeping backwards and forth, or the ground below shaking with each thud of the knife in his hand. Lying before the boy was the ugliest thing Crixus had perhaps ever seen: it was a grotesque effigy of a little human with a large, bare skull. Ribs and fore-limb bones made up its deformed legs and arms, while its body was a hideous mess of something had long since rotted into a putrid pile of black and white sludge. The boy seemed to be beating the sludge with the knife, or perhaps he was stabbing it and, having done so for a long time, had beaten a hole through the middle of the effigy?

"It worked!" the boy suddenly exclaimed, turning to see the tall man standing in his room, shrouded in darkness. "I knew you'd come, I just knew it!"

"Wha..." Crixus began, but his words seemed to die as they left his throat. Though there were candles, they only gave off a flickering light. The room was very cold, perhaps colder than the icy winds from off the sea outside the walls, and they stole his words before he could speak them.

"I did it, the Black Sacrament!" he pointed to the effigy lying in the center of the ring of candles. "It took so long, I thought I'd never...but you're here now! You'll accept my contract."

Crixus tried to speak, but the same eerie cold kept his voice from doing what he wished it to do.

"Last year," the little boy began, walking over to the other end of the house, which stood over the street. "When winter came, my ma got sick. And she...she never got better. A whole year passed and she never got better, then one night...she fell asleep..." He sniffled. "...and never woke up."

He gestured towards a bed at the farthest end of the room. In the bed there lay a rotting old corpse, whose flesh had rotted away from the lips, leaving her permanently grinning sightlessly at the drab ceiling.

"Then I got that..." He pointed to a note lying on the chest near the end of the bed, where a note was sitting atop it. Taking the note in his cold hands, Crixus walked over to the flickering candles and tried to read from it.

_'Master Aventus Aretino,_

_'Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak wishes to express his deepest sympathies at the death of your mother, Naalia Aretino. Unfortunately, because you are fatherless and have no other known relatives, the Jarl cannot allow you to remain in your home unsupervised. Therefore, in no more than a week's time, you are to report to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, where you will reside until your sixteenth birthday. The Aretino family house in the city of Windhelm will, of course, remain your property. The building will be securely locked and ready for your return six years hence._

_'With greatest respect,_

_'Jorleif, steward to our most noble Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak_

_'PS - I am unsure of the education provided to you by your recently deceased mother, or if you possess the ability to read the letter I am currently composing. Therefore, a member of the city guard will call upon you in one week, at your home, and provide escort to the orphanage. Hopefully, his arrival will not come as a complete shock.'_

"And then they took me away," pouted the boy angrily, stomping his foot on the floor and making all the candles rattle. "It's not fair! I shouldn't have to put up with...her!"

"Her?" Crixus finally managed to push out of his freezing lips.

"Grelod the Kind," Aventus continued. "She's the headmistress of the Honorhall Orphanage in Riften: a cruel, evil woman. She beats the children for the smallest things we mess up on, she never lets us be adopted and treats us all like we're trash! Not just me, but everyone else in the orphanage. I don't know how that old crone got called 'kind', she's not kind at all. She's a monster! She doesn't deserve to live one more day!

"So then I ran away from there one night. No way I'm putting up with her like that. But I wasn't going to let her get away with it, no siree! So I found out from one of those dark elves in the Grey Quarter about how to contact the Dark Brotherhood. And now you're here! And you call kill Grelod the Kind!"

Crixus did not immediately respond, as he was now thinking in the grim Aretino residence what he had just been told. He had not even met Ulfric Stormcloak face to face and he already hated him. It was not merely that he was a barbaric Nord or that he was a rebel, but that he seemed, in Crixus' estimation, to be the lowest form of scum on the face of Mundus. From using a dangerous power like the Voice to shout Torygg to pieces and leave Elisif a poor widow, left on her own, to sending a young boy off to suffer under some wicked headmistress, there seemed to be no redeemable qualities about Ulfric Stormcloak.

After a little consideration, Crixus nodded silently.

* * *

Crixus left the Aretino residence as soon as possible. He had not found the Dark Brotherhood, but he had seen the fabled Black Sacrament in the living flesh: or dead as the case was. Long dead and possibly rotten. Where that little boy had managed to collect bones and flesh, especially in such a superstitious place as Skyrim, Crixus did not want to know or even try to guess. Some things were left buried in the shadows, like that damned house.

As for the Dark Brotherhood, he knew where Riften was, and he had seen the Black Sacrament. But that was not enough for him to believe that the Dark Brotherhood were in fact real. If he had seen a living member, that was something else. Nevertheless, he felt for the young Aretino boy. Sedris Ulver, his stepmother, had been little better than how he described Grelod. True, she never tied him or Venerius up, but she could be ruthless in her punishing of them and, Crixus felt, sometimes she enjoyed punishing them more than their father Valerius. Dark Brotherhood or no, he _would_ kill this boy's senile tormentor.

Walking out into the road, Crixus saw that it was abandoned: the dark elf and the children were gone, all save for one ragged looking girl with dark hair and a basket of flowers under her arm. Walking down towards her, he saw two alleys leading from where he stood. One turned towards a large gate that was, currently, open and leading to the Windhelm docks. There he saw the Red Dog, Shaddar's caravel with its old sails, the colors of crimson and gold long since faded away, and its black banner, bearing the likeness of a dog's head upon it in red. It made him happy to know that his friend, who had almost died during the Battle of the Red Dog, had survived had gone on to make something of himself.

The other path, turning to the left, sloped downward, Unlike the rest of the city, this quarter even from here seemed dark and filthy. Wondering if this was the infamous Grey Quarter he had been hearing so much about, he slowly made his way down towards that path.

"Don't go down there, mister," the young girl said to him. "That's the Grey Quarter, where them dark elves live. They give me the creeps."

"You shouldn't fear someone just because of how they look," Crixus stated, then turned and went down into the sloping path.

* * *

The path led into an overcrowded part of town that seemed to have architecture from everywhere else but Windhelm. Most of the old Windhelm buildings were dilapidated or restructured with stone in the style of the houses from Mournhold or, at least from the paintings, the houses that once belonged to those banner-men and retainers of House Hlaalu. The houses bore colorful banners, most of them the golden banner of House Hlaalu, the forsaken house. After the Oblivion Crisis, House Hlaalu became outcast for their support of the Empire and with the eruption of the Red Mountain and subsequent Argonian invasion, there wasn't much left of them now save for those who had fled to Skyrim.

As he went down the inclining street into the bottom of the quarter, Crixus had the distinct impression that the stone houses, stacked one on top of the other, would at any moment fall down upon him. The city also was filled with refuse; mud, snow and shit congealed into a brown, stinking mess that flooded the streets like a sickly quag. Walking through, he saw many blue-gray faces glaring at him, their red eyes filled with anger, suspicion, fear and hate. Crixus smiled at them, but they retorted insults in the Dunmeri language. He forced himself to look away from their eyes: they did not truly hate him, they only were this way because of the Nords. But even as he said those words, he could not deny the anger in their eyes, nor the fact that he held the same against them in his heart, despite his better judgment.

While he was walking thus and thinking, a bony-faced Dunmer with long dark hair - strange among Dunmer, even women, who either shaved their heads completely bald or wore their hair in the style of the mohawk of the Nerevarine - walk out of one of the buildings. While she was walking, a Nord dressed in peasant's clothing whose beer-soaked breath Crixus could smell all the way from where he stood, stepped out of an alley.

"Well well," the Nord slurred. "Look what we got here."

"It's early for your insults, isn't it, Rolff?" the elf asked, with all the haughtiness of a princess having been addressed by a peasant out of turn.

"Never too early for the truth, red-eyes," Rolff retorted.

"Go home, Rolff, you're drunk," the elf retorted.

Rolff laughed. "Look at the bite on you, Suvaris! One might assume from that tone that you think you _own_ this town!"

"I have as much right to be here as any of you," Suvaris retorted venomously. "In fact, I have _more_ right to be here than you do. Skyrim once belonged to the elves, you know."

"Them's treasonous words, little lady," a voice wheezed. Turning around, Suvaris saw another man, dressed in rags, hobbling over to face the elf from the other side.

"Angrenor!" she greeted. "I thought you went to the war. What happened, did you get scared of fighting and deserted your post?"

"Insolent little b*tch!" the one called Angrenor rasped, raising his hand as though he would strike the elf.

"Patience, my friend, patience," slurred Rolff. "Plenty of time for that later. Why don't you tell our Suvaris what brings you back to us?"

"Last month," he returned. "Took a sword through me chest."

"How sad," Suvaris returned in a tone that spoke of anything but pity.

"Was protecting me shield-brothers," Angrenor continued. "Got six of them Imperial elf-lovers before that cravenly bastard jabbed me from the back. I'd wager he was an elf as well."

"What a pity," Suvarius replied. "Now, if you don't mind..."

"I do mind, you skull-faced little darkie!" Rolff interjected. "Your kind are a blight on our land, polluting our fair city with your filth." He seized Suvaris' wrist.

"Let go of me, you drunken snow-back oaf!" Suvaris retorted, struggling to free her wrist.

"Methinks we need to teach this red-eye some manners," Angrenor stated.

"Methinks so too," Rolff added.

"Unhand me, Stone-fister!" Suvaris shouted.

"You better watch yourself," Angrenor stated. "Ulfric ain't having none of your dark elf cheek. And neither are we."

"You come here where you ain't wanted," Rolff barked. "Eat our food, take our jobs, fill our streets with your filth, but you don't pay no taxes or help the Stormcloaks!"

"We never pay _your_ taxes!" Suvaris angrily retorted. "And we haven't taken any sides because it isn't our fight!"

"Of course it's your fight!" Angrenor retorted. "You live in Skyrim, it's your fight. Huh, maybe you don't help cuz you've already made up your minds, haven't you? Imperial spies, I'll warrant."

"Spies?" laughed Suvaris haughtily. "That's a new low, even for you!"

"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, hmm?" leered Rolff. "Me and Angrenor got ways of finding out what you really are."

"That's enough!" Crixus shouted, stepping up to the defense of the elf woman.

"Stay outta this, stranger!" Rolff barked.

"You leave her alone, snow-back," Crixus sneered.

"Or what, huh?" he retorted. "You gonna make something of it, elf-lover?"

"Maybe I will, Stone-fister!"

"My name's Rolff Stone-fist, you elf-loving cunt!" the peasant roared, throwing Suvaris into the mud. "And I won't take no lip from anyone, not her and not you!"

"He's Cyrodilian, by that accent of his," Angrenor added. "An Imperial, I bet. Wonder if he's got the gear under that there fur armor."

"You're welcome to try and take it off me, if you can," Crixus retorted. "Though, if what you said is true, I don't think you'll be able to get very far." He delivered a swift punch to Angrenor's stomach, winding him instantly due to his collapsed lung from his war wound. Then, pulling out his knife, he turned towards Rolff.

"Maybe he was wrong, eh?" Rolff asked. "Maybe she ain't the Imperial spy. Maybe _you_ are? There's talk among the city guards, said somebody snuck into city over the walls last night. Killed two guards. They've been searching the city for the culprit. Wonder if that's you, huh?"

"Go ahead and try it," Crixus retorted. "I'll jam that stone fist of yours up your arse."

"Guards!" Rolff shouted, kicking up mud towards Crixus' face before taking off. "He's here! I found him! He's over here! Run, quick! He's attacked again!"

But Rolff had already taken off long before Crixus could stop him. Rising up he wiped the filth out of his face, then walked over to the elf woman.

"Here, let me help you up," he said, offering her his hand.

"Don't touch me, _human_," she angrily retorted, swatting his hand away as she rose up herself.

"I just saved your life!" Crixus retorted.

"Am I supposed to thank you?" retorted Suvaris.

"Ungrateful wench!" Crixus roared. "I should have let them have you."

"You think you're so much better than us?" Suvaris asked. "I'm just your good deed for the week, aren't I? The high and mighty Colovian stooping down to help the poor elf maiden in distress, and I'm to feel so privileged to receive your help. There's only one help I would appreciate, and that's if you people left us alone!"

"Why, you little..."

Suvaris turned to walk away, then spun around on her heel, glaring at Crixus with red eyes.

"At least the Argonians are privileged enough to live outside the walls of the city," she stated. "Away from all of _your_ kind. We have to put up with it day after day. So don't you come around here with your self-righteousness, pretending to help us only to make yourself feel better!"

"You really ought to show less insolence, woman," Crixus stated. "I just saved your life, you know."

"Cry me a river, snow-back," she retorted, then went on her way. Behind, Crixus could hear Angrenor wheezing as he tried to get back onto his feet. In frustration, he kicked his stomach, causing him to gasp again and swore loudly. Moments later, he saw another Dunmer, clad in the robes of a peasant, walk out from a building whose sign read New Gnisis Corner-club. He held himself with the air of a king and when he spoke, his voice was thick with the Dunmeri drawl, though just as haughty as any other Dunmer.

"I hope you don't take what she said to heart," the elf said. "After all, we're not all like that."

"I can't believe she didn't at least acknowledge me for my help!" Crixus retorted.

"You can't blame her, to be sure," the elf continued. "We've been living in Skyrim for almost two hundred years. Any _human_ might tell us to simply get used to their behavior. But we are Dunmer, we are _meant_ to rule! And our histories recount when we owned this land they so violently defend as 'their own.' We will not stand for this injustice and if your Empire will do nothing about it, then mark my words, we will."

"You certainly sound decent enough," Crixus added.

"I'm a learned mer," the elf stated. "Athal Sarys is my name. Perhaps you've heard of me? I wrote _Dunmer of Skyrim_ in retort to that ignorant drivel _Nords of Skyrim_: nationalistic propaganda if ever there was one!"

"Down here!" a voice shouted. "He went this way!"

"On the lam, I see," chuckled Sarys, then leaned in and whispered into Crixus' ear. "Come to the New Gnisis Corner-club once you've sorted this out. We have business to discuss."

Crixus was already running by the time the sound of pursuit was fast on his way, having leaped past Athal Sarys on his way through the Grey Quarter. But sloshing through the muddy shit was not easy work and the going was slower than he would have liked. As he ran, he came to a hole covered by an iron grate in the street under which he heard water running. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the hold guards at the far end of the street, running after him. In his hurry, he ran towards the make-shift markets and knocked over a table full of sujamma into the street, then overturned a cart filled with scrib cabbage as well. It was hardly a sufficient road-block, but it was the only thing he had.

Running back to the hole, he seized the iron grating with both hands and, lifting with all of his might, managed to pull it free. The rot-iron grate was heavier than it looked, but Crixus' years in the army had given him enough strength to wield a two-handed Nordic great-sword if the need arose. Seeing that the guards were closing in, he threw the grate at them as hard as he could, then leaped down into the water below.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed once he landed hip deep in the water. "Shite!"

Beneath him the waters were cold as ice and topped with a layer of the muddy dung from the streets above. Around him he saw stone so much visibly older than the ones above, he wondered that they were still standing. He pressed on, willing himself to forget the freezing cold shitty water all around him, all the while following the sound of rushing water: if water could escape, then so could he. All around him rose the old stone-masonry of the ancient city of Ysgramor; Windhelm truly showed its age in these stones.

Behind him he heard a splash and knew with a certainty that the guards were coming after him. Pushing ahead as fiercely as he could, Crixus continued until he saw light up ahead streaming through a grate in the wall. If he could reach that grate, he might be able to escape the city. With another push, he carried on, coming at last to the grate. He tried to move it, but it had been bolted into the stone around it. Cursing his misfortune, he backed up and saw that there were other such grates in the side of the wall. Moving as swiftly as possible, he came to the next one and tried it: solid. Pursuit was closing in behind him. Hopelessly he tried the next one, which was so old and rusted that it came apart as he pushed it.

Just below him he saw the ice-filled bay below him. The drain exited out into the sea, but he knew that to jump into the Sea of Ghosts would be a death sentence. It was freezing cold and if he ever got out, he would certainly freeze to death from the cold winds. But he could feel the water behind him sloshing as the guards were nearing in their pursuit. Trusting to luck, he threw himself out of the opening. With a loud crack he hit the ice, then his mind went numb as cold water surrounded him and he knew no more.

* * *

**(AN: So there we go, my brother got his wish to have Crixus wade through shit AND walk through ruined portions of the city of Windhelm. He wanted the ruins to be visible, above ground and outside the city walls, but, taking a queue from ancient cities such as Jerusalem, which have been around for thousands of years, i had the ruins placed under the city's main level and be the de facto sewers.)**

**(No reviews? Is it my cynicism in the author's notes? You don't really have to read them if you don't want to. Is it the anti-Nord tone of this story? I had a little bit of showcasing Dunmer behavior as well, which, since the Dunmer would likely have an agenda against the Argonians [slaves rising up against them and putting them all into slavery], they would have zero empathy for them being treated unfairly by the Nords.)**


	14. Among the Desert Walkers

**(AN: This chapter really grates, because it doesn't really serve much purpose to the narrative of the story. It is, as i said before, just meandering. But that's the way my brother likes his stories: _Dark Souls_ and _Dragon Soul_ have made him hate a focused plot with side characters that play essential roles to the main story [like in _Knights of the Old Republic_, which we both loved but i loved that aspect especially in _KotOR II_], and prefer rather something that meanders about, showing things with no point to the plot other than just to be there because, according to him, that's just what happens. I guess, even though he would deny it, his fantasy stories would be closer to those of Lewis Carroll and L. Frank Baum: no allegories or hidden meanings, just stuff for the sake of being there.)**

* * *

**Among the Desert Walkers**

Crixus slowly opened his eyes, wondering what had happened to him. The last he remembered was great pain from striking the ice in the bay. Now he lay inside a tent with a single clay lamp hanging from the main tent-poles, a flame hovering in its mouth. The tent had a distinct odor, one that was so sickly sweet it became nauseating after a few whiffs of it: the undeniable scent of skooma. As he lifted his eyes, he saw that the tent was cluttered with things, things in bottles, things in boxes, things in burlap sacks, things wrapped in parchment paper. At first glance, it seemed like a merchant's tent. Nearby, at the entrance of the tent, Crixus saw a Khajiit, one of the cat-folk of Elsweyr, sitting cross-legged before him. Unlike Ma'Iir, who was a young Khajiit, this one was obviously more mature both in his face and his features. His nose was wider and his ears were longer, and his voice was a melodious croon, sly but neither discernibly male nor female.

"It is good that you are awake, human," he said. "Ma'dran has tended you throughout the night, fearing that you would not survive."

"Survive?" Crixus groaned.

"You were brought to Ma'dran," the Khajiit, whose name Crixus guessed was Ma'dran, replied. "By one of the lizardmen of Black Marsh, the Argonians, living on the Dock Assemblage in Windhelm. He found you in the bay, unconscious and sinking into the cold water. He fished you out and brought you to us, since we were near at hand."

"Perhaps I should thank him, or thank you," Crixus returned. He then felt on his belt for his coin-purse, but found that it was missing. His eyes turned immediately towards Ma'dran, the nearest person in the tent.

"Ma'dran knows what you think," the Khajiit returned. "You must think that because Ma'dran is a Khajiit, Ma'dran is also a thief and that Ma'dran stole your purse. You would be right in the first part: Ma'dran _is_ a thief. But you would only be slightly right in the second part: Ma'dran did steal your purse, but not from you."

"What?" Crixus asked, bewildered.

"When you were brought to us," Ma'dran explained. "Your rescuer took your purse. Perhaps as payment for rescuing you? Ma'dran does not know: Argonians are very secretive about themselves. That one was clever, but Ma'dran is cleverer still." He then reached onto his belt and lifted up Crixus' purse. "Returns your purse to you from the hands of the thief."

Crixus took the purse, weighed it in his hands, and then chuckled.

"Does this one find something Ma'dran has said amusing?"

"There's an old saying that goes, 'there is no honor among thieves,'" Crixus replied. "Personally, I always thought it was bull-shite, and you've proven me right."

"Ma'dran does not deal in cattle dung," the Khajiit replied. "Only in the finest wares one can find this far north of Elsweyr."

"Well, that's certainly interesting," Crixus stated. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd be much appreciative if I was allowed to go."

"You are free to go wherever you wish," Ma'dran stated.

"Well, good," Crixus sighed. "Just give me a minute, will you?" He then sat up and began examining his person, making sure his 'rescuer' hadn't taken any other liberties with him. Three of his knifes were still on him, as well as his lock-pick ring and, he breathed a sigh of relief, the letters. He had long since hired a hydromancer to put a spell of water resistance upon them, as it would be a long time since he would be able to read them, either as prefect or as an agent for the Empire.

"So, uh, Ma'dran, is it?" he asked. The Khajiit nodded. "Where are you headed?"

"Our caravan is on its way to Solitude," he replied. "There is much profit to be made in these holds."

"What about the war?" he asked.

"War drives away other traders in fear for their lives," Ma'dran replied. "But not Ma'dran."

"Has it been difficult, doing business in Skyrim?"

"Not as one might think at first assumption," Ma'dran answered. "It is true that the Nords do not let us into their cities, but we give that no mind. They will always come out of their cities to our tents to purchase our goods. And this war has been a boon to our sales. We offer supplies and wares that the soldiers cannot obtain by other means."

"Which sides do you serve?"

"Ma'dran does not know about sides," Ma'dran returned. "Ma'dran is for Ma'dran, if that is what you mean. Profit is no respecter of persons, and we go where the profit is."

Crixus nodded in affirmation, though he still had a few questions for Ma'dran. Nevertheless, he was happy that they were going to Solitude and decided that he would stay with them for a while in order to make his return there.

"Perhaps I could stay with you for a while?" he asked. "Accompany you as far as Solitude?"

"Why does this one ask this of Ma'dran?" asked the Khajiit. "We already have a protector in the remarkable character of Ra'zhinda. What more would you provide us?"

"More protection?" Crixus asked. "From what I've seen, these Nords don't like you very much. I could provide you protection as far as Solitude, as that is my destination as well."

"Ma'dran sees what you mean," the Khajiit nodded. "Perhaps we will permit you to travel with us as far as Solitude."

* * *

Crixus was allowed to stay with the Khajiit caravan for their journey to Solitude which, according to Ma'dran, who appeared to be the leader of this group, said would take about seven days. While haste was definitely needed, he knew that he had no other immediate options. He was deep within rebel territory and if he looked for a town to buy a horse at, he might as well give himself up to the nearest guard.

The journeying, of course, was slow. They had no need for haste and so they meandered westwards at a leisurely pace, making camp whenever the weather turned against them or at any town along the way. So far they had only made one major stop after Windhelm, at the small way-town west where Nightgate Inn was located. Here they paused to share their wares with any who had the coin for purchasing. Crixus remained in their tents, trying to keep a low profile and listening more than talking. By three days time, they had crossed into Heljarchen Vale and were planning to skirt the mountains before them to their southern end, passing briefly through Whiterun as they aimed for the road towards Dragon Bridge. Crixus did not like the thought of this, but he had little choice: he was in the hands of Khajiit, whom any Nord who knew the political situation in Elsweyr would distrust as Thalmor spies. But such was his condition.

While Crixus did not speak the Khajiiti language, they were more than happy to speak the common tongue in his presence and keep few secrets from him. Through this he learned that this caravan was one of three groups that traveled the barren, hostile plains, valleys and mountains of Skyrim. Their member was a well-to-do pawn-broker named Ri'saad, who had led their company into Skyrim to take a monopoly on the potential profit to be made there. Each group consisted of no more than five Khajiit, and they each ran different trade circuits: the circuit of Ma'dran's caravan ran between Windhelm and Solitude, the two least likely of places to be connected in this time of war.

Lastly, due whether to their openness or whether Crixus did indeed have some measure of his race's fabled diplomatic skills, Crixus learned a little bit about those who traveled in Ma'dran's caravan. There were four of them with Ma'dran being the one who did the most talking and selling, being their _de facto_ leader. The one he had named Ra'zhinda was a tall, slender Khajiit woman with dark fur and yellow eyes. She wore steel armor in the local style and wielded a sword on her belt and a shield upon her back. The other two were Ma'jhad and Ki'shni. Ma'jhad also served as a guard and an expert in lock-picking: this was, in fact, the only thing which both he and Crixus had in common and could openly talk about, sometimes in jest over their failed attempts at picking locks. Ki'shni was a recent acquisition, a teenager from Leyawiin who had left Cyrodiil when news of the Khajiit caravans reached her town. She was not very interested in profit other than the thrill of adventure and living out in a tent under the stars at night. Perhaps it was because of this that the others seemed less cordial to her than to each other.

* * *

It was the fourth day of their journey. A cold spring air was drifting down from the mountains. Crixus walked in the rear of the Khajiit caravan, with his bow in hand and eyes looking all around him. Ma'jhad and Ra'zhinda, who knew the circuit well, went at the head of the caravan, with Ma'jhad leading a pack-horse laden with supplies. Ma'dran and Ki'shni were next, leading two more pack horses, one of them hitched to a cart bearing more than just trade goods but also their camping supplies. So far they had encountered nothing worse than the cold and a few wolf-packs. But even the wolves were frightened away by Ra'zhinda, Ma'jhad and Crixus.

"There are many wonders in this land, are there not?" Ki'shni asked Crixus, looking back over her shoulder.

"Many dangers, you mean," Crixus corrected. "It seems like half the time, there is something trying to kill you, and then the other half of the time there is some_one_ trying to kill you."

"Ki'shni does not believe it is all that bad," the young Khajiit replied.

"Oh, but it is," Crixus added. "I've had wolves, trolls, ice-wraiths, bandits, Stormcloaks and the weather to deal with ever since I set foot in this forsaken country."

"And there's more," Ki'shni added with a happy-go-lucky smile on her face. "Saber-cats with teeth as long as a child's forearm. Bears so large they can rip a man in half with one blow. And there are worse things as well: the draugr, unliving things inhabiting the ruins off the main roads, hagravens, old crones practicing the dark arts in the deep caves of the forests. To say nothing of giants, werewolves, Falmer, ice-people and vampires."

"Giants?" Crixus asked. "There are still giants in Skyrim? I thought they would have been wiped out long ago."

"No, Imperial," Ki'shni shook her head. "There are _still_ giants Skyrim. Ki'shni saw one walking across the plains of Whiterun when the caravans had their last meeting. It must have been twelve feet tall and wielding a club that was easily as long as Ki'shni is tall!"

"What I've heard," Crixus stated. "Is that giants are smarter than the people of Skyrim say in their so-called legends. Some of them can talk and they also named the Dwemer 'dwarves'. An ignorant appellation, I must say, considering that, from the reliable sources, Dwemer were no taller or shorter than typical mer."

"You are so full of contradictions," Ki'shni stated.

"They make life interesting," Crixus retorted.

Just then Crixus halted. The ground shook for a moment: so faint and yet perceptible even by them. Then again it shook, then again and again: now the ground was shaking to what felt like the beat of a drum. Crixus turned about, fitting an arrow into his bowstring, and saw what was making the ground shake. Standing about eight feet tall, its skin was a pale bluish-gray, rough and gnarled like old stone or tree roots. It had short, stubby legs, long hairy arms with wide hands and was incredibly fat. Atop its jiggling lower girth sat a head that seemed too small for such a large body: a bald head with a squarish lower jaw, a mouth filled with black, broken teeth, long flapping ears and tiny blue eyes.

"Ogre!" Crixus heard Ra'zhinda cry out.

Upon hearing the shouting, the ogre roared at the party, then charged forward, fists raised as it jogged towards them. Taking aim, Crixus sent an arrow at its head, but under-shot and struck the ogre in the throat. Ra'zhinda drew out her sword and shield and Ma'jhad a steel great-sword: Crixus thought it an odd weapon for a Khajiit to wield, but he did not pause to take stock of it. One of the monster's eyes was his initial target, and he had to take aim again before it began swinging at them.

Ra'zhinda was the first one to attack, shield held up as she swung at the beast's massive belly. The blade did not go in very deep, but it was enough to anger the beast. Turning towards Ra'zhinda, it swung its wide left hand at her. Though she held up her shield, she could not stand before so great a force behind the blow and crumpled to the ground. From the side came Ma'jhad, swinging his great-sword for a grand strike against the ogre's right thigh. But ogre's skin was not only thicker than human flesh, the bones were denser as well and no limbs could be cut off in one swift blow. The blade bit through the skin, spewing red blood and sending the ogre down on one knee.

But even that was not enough. One swing of its right hand and Ma'jhad was knocked down. Crixus fired another arrow, but it skipped off the ogre's thick hide. As he pulled out another one, Ra'zhinda was already back up on her feet and striking again. The ogre had now turned its back, covered in hardened mottled skin plates like scales.

"Turn it around!" Crixus shouted. "I need to shoot the eyes!"

Though the ogre had caught Ra'zhinda off guard for a moment, she was in fact faster than the lumbering beast. Even clad in steel armor, she could still duck, dart and dodge any of its cumbersome swipes and swings. Though her sword was of little use against the ogre's thick skin, she served just the purpose that Crixus wanted: a distraction.

Meanwhile, Ma'jhad was back up on his feet and charging towards the ogre. Crixus was about to call for him to stop when he saw that Ra'zhinda had brought the ogre to a point where Ma'jhad's attack, from the ogre's left, would turn its face directly into view. Swinging again, the blade was impaled in the ogre's thick thigh, turning its tiny head towards the Khajiit. Exhaling, Crixus let loose an arrow straight into the ogre's right eye. Twenty-two years of training as an archer, whether with a toy bow in his youth, in the Imperial camps during the War, hunting for food for himself and the other soldiers in the Dragontail Mountains of Hammerfell, or in his spare time in Mournhold, had honed Crixus' skill with a bow until he was able to shoot as well as any of the skilled marksmen of Valenwood.

The ogre reached up one hand for its blinded eye, thrashing about with its left hand to try to swipe away those who were hacking at its legs, but it was to no avail. They were too quick for the large, lumbering beast.

"Strike the leg!" Crixus commanded.

Ma'jhad swung again at the left leg with his great-sword. By now, however, the steel great-sword was starting to break through the ogre's legs. From the other side, Ra'zhinda threw all of her blow into one strike to the ogre's right knee. It was just enough to break the skin and jar the knee-cap enough for the ogre to collapse onto its knees. Crixus grinned as he saw his opening, placing his bow back on his quiver and pulling out one of his knives as he ran towards the ogre. Using the beast's wide, flat foot as a stepping stone, he was now clambering up the monstrosity's back. With one hand he gripped the long floppy ear and with the other he drove the dagger into the ogre's left eye. Now fully blind, the beast began swinging wildly, swatting at the air in vain.

"It's done for!" Crixus shouted in triumph. "Take it down!"

"Gladly!" roared Ra'zhinda in reply.

Such great force he had never seen among the Khajiit. Both Ra'zhinda and Ma'jhad leaped upon the ogre and began stabbing and hacking at it with their swords. Ra'zhinda jabbed at the throat, where the arrow had already punctured the skin. Ma'jhad, meanwhile, was trying his damnedest to hack off one of the ogre's arms before it finally found Ra'zhinda and hit her or threw her away. Crixus, meanwhile, sheathed his dagger and pulled out his bow, fitting another arrow into the string as he walked towards the fallen ogre. Now standing over its tiny head, thrashing about madly and roaring in pain, he shot an arrow into its open mouth.

"Crixus!" Ra'zhina growled. "It will not die!"

"Don't let up!" Crixus retorted. "Keep at the beast until it stops kicking!"

On and on they went, with Crixus throwing away his sword and driving his dagger into the ogre's throat over and over. Slowly the beast began to slow down until at last his limbs fell to the ground lifeless and useless. But that did not stop Ma'jhad from his attack as he hacked and hacked away at the ogre's arm, finally severing it with a spray of blood upon his face and those of Crixus and Ra'zhinda.

"Ra'zhinda thinks it is dead now," Ra'zhinda jested.

"That's not good enough, not for what this one did to us!" Ma'jhad stated, pointing to the ogre's loins. It wore a large diaper of fur which, at first, Crixus did not comprehend until he saw the pattern upon the fur: it had been the tawny hide of a Khajiit.

"How do you know it's one of you?" Crixus asked.

"Ma'jhad does not know," the Khajiit shook his head, his long, black tapering ears stiff with rage. "Ma'jhad will only give vengeance for his fellow Suthay-raht."

Crixus wiped the ogre's blood off his face, then turned back to the caravan. "Was that fun enough for you, Ki'shni?"

"You were fantastic!" the young Khajiit girl replied. "Ki'shni has never seen such great prowess in battle before! You are truly a worthy adventurer!"

"While Ma'dran is not as enthusiastic as Ki'shni," Ma'dran stated, walking over to where Crixus stood next to the ogre. "Ma'dran is nevertheless impressed by your skills. Perhaps Ma'dran puts in a good word with Ri'saad, hmm?"

"Thank you," Crixus returned, looking at the ogre's body. "But I'm a busy man. I have my task ahead of me."

"You misunderstand Ma'dran," Ma'dran replied. "Ri'saad has a helping hand, hmm? One too many. Strong warrior named Indur'sa. You remind Ma'dran of Indur'sa. Perhaps Ma'dran tells Ri'saad of your helping the caravan, hmm? Perhaps Ri'saad is impressed by Ma'dran's words and sends Indur'sa to you?"

"Are you asking me," Crixus asked, turning to Ma'dran. "If I want you to tell your foreman about what happened here so he can send a Khajiit warrior to follow me around?"

"Not follow, no," Ma'dran chuckled. "Not follow like these silly Nord house-carls, who stand in doorways, carry burdens and catch arrows for you with their shields. Not following. A friend, a companion. One who will fight at your side, who will watch your back and hold his own against any enemy you might encounter. Indur'sa is a good Khajiit, if Ma'dran says so himself. You may yet like him. What does it say?"

Crixus turned back to the ogre. "Fine. Tell him to meet me in Solitude. They're bound to know where I am there."

"Excellent!" Ma'dran practically squealed. "Now, let us be off. There are many days journey ahead of us before we reach Solitude. We cannot afford delay, profit waits for no one!"

Ma'dran returned to the caravan with Ra'zhinda at his side and got the horses ready to move out again. Crixus, meanwhile, was looking at the ogre while Ma'jhad cut off the fur from the ogre's loins with his claws. Crixus averted his eyes from something that looked like a bald baby Dunmer, shriveled with unnaturally advanced age.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked.

"This hide must be given a proper burial," Ma'jhad said firmly. "In memory of the one who wore it." He looked back at the caravan, then back to Crixus. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "I'm just wondering what an ogre's doing this far north of the Jerall Mountains."

"Ma'jhad does not know," the Khajiit replied, shaking his head. "Perhaps it was hunting or pillaging?"

"Maybe," Crixus muttered in an absent-minded tone.

"Come, friend," Ma'jhad said to Crixus. "Let us return to the caravan. Solitude is only three days away."

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- at last that is done and we can get down to some decent character development in the next chapter!)**

**(I know what you're thinking: but, _wickedmetalviking1990_, there are no ogres in _Skyrim!_ Well, coming from someone who can't stand _Shrek_, thank Talos for that! But, yes, i'm going that road again, in our many conversations, my brother seems to always take the argument that any previous _Elder Scrolls_ game - _Arena_ through _Oblivion_, but especially _Oblivion_ - were much superior to _Skyrim_ for x-reasons. Obviously that is not my opinion, but i'm able to give him some "fan service" by having certain pre-_Skyrim_ creatures appear in this story [ogres and mention of the ice-tribes from _Elder Scrolls: Dawnstar_]. Don't worry, there won't be any kwama or Ayleid spirits or anything: only the things that were found in the Jerall Mountains or near Bruma in _Oblivion_ are fair game for a story set in Skyrim.)**


	15. Elisif the Fair

**(AN: Part of me fears that my reviewers [where are you guys?] will think with this story that i have broken free and become a better writer, writing better work than _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ or _The Dragon and the Bear_ with more complex characters, better story-telling, etc. Maybe i have, but i'm still proud of those efforts. And one day, like with _Joshua the King of Heaven_, i will go back and bring my first story up to scratch. But I am still the same author with the same likes and dislikes, i am only trying something different with this story. Whereas _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_ were heavily steeped in myth, the epic of the hero's journey and viking metal, the tone of this story is different [just remember the summary]. It is, at once, fantastical and meandering, but also grim and "realistic" in some ways.)  
**

**(Just as a warning, some iffy things may happen in this chapter.)**

* * *

**Elisif the Fair  
**

Solitude at last. The great city had been welcoming from the very moment his eyes espied it afar off so many days ago. Now he was returning to it, alone, with little more than rumors on which to give his report. He was both elated and depressed: he had won by returning to Solitude, but failed to succeed in his main quest, the only reason he had been going to Windhelm in the first place and why the others had died to get him there.

Weary though he was after spending the night in the Khajiit caravan at the bottom of the hill, he did not stop by at the Winking Skeever for a quick pick-me-up. Duty called and he had to fill his report soon: he had been away far too long. Straight to Castle Dour he went to find General Tullius and tell him of his failure. He found the courtyard almost the same as when he left it: filled with soldiers training for battle. Going towards the door, he saw that it was closed and a squire was sitting on a stool before the door, which was guarded by two Imperial soldiers in full regalia.

"If you're looking for the General or Legate Rikke," the squire stated in a bored voice. "They've both at the Blue Palace with the Jarl."

"Why would you tell me?" Crixus asked. "For all you know, I might be an assassin."

"For who, the Stormcloaks?" scoffed the squire. "For one, your accent gives you away. You're obviously not a Nord, and the Stormcloaks only let Nords join their ranks. Furthermore, if you were an assassin, you're a very stupid one to walk right up to the front gate of Castle Dour, especially surrounded like you are right now."

Crixus smiled. "Good point, man. Carry on."

With a hearty jogging pace, Crixus made his way to the Blue Palace where there was, once again, a line of petitioners before the doors. He patiently waited his turn, fingering the bulge of letters under his coat. Perhaps now was the time to read them, he wondered, while waiting in line. No, his critical, logical mind told him: never be at ease in the midst of politicians. He kept his eyes and ears opened as he stood there, waiting for his turn. Among those present in line with him, he saw the reddish orange _tagelmusts_ of a company of Redguards, several Breton mages, a Dunmer in brilliant clothing, a man in black robes, but mostly there were Nords, townsfolk and peasants.

When at last he was standing before the doors, Crixus groaned as he was once again forced to forsake his weapons at the door. He did not begrudge the Imperial laws - he upheld them even now when he was not at his prefect's desk in Mournhold - but this one was silly: he was not an assassin, nor was he an enemy of the Jarl or her court. Why should he have to check his bow and daggers?

At last he was allowed into the anteroom, the waiting chamber before the court of the Jarl. Here he pushed his way through the assembled dignitaries, trying to get as close as he could to the stairs. For some reason, he wanted to know what was going on before he went back up those stairs. He could hear several voices raised in discourse, but they were barely audible over the murmur of the crowd around him. Straining to get closer, he pushed the man with the black cloak he had seen before.

"Watch it!" the man retorted.

Crixus turned to say something, but noticed that the man was gone. He could not even see him among the crowd, though he was sure he had seen him standing right next to him a moment ago. Shaking his head, he turned back to the stairs, turning one ear towards the stairs and placing his hand on the other to ignore the voices behind him.

"There is still the Riften matter to discuss," an older Nord voice spoke.

"What is the situation?" Elisif's voice asked.

"The people are saying that the Jarl has turned her back on them," the Nord man continued. "That she has sold the city out to the Thieves Guild, who pillage and plunder the poor without let or hindrance. That the quality of life in Riften has sunk lower than since the days of Jarl Hosgunn."

"We must send a relief effort there at once!" Elisif stated.

"That would not be prudent, my lady," Crixus heard General Tullius speaking. "Jarl Laila the Lawgiver is a known supporter of Ulfric's rebellion. Any relief we send there would at best be wasted on the Jarl."

"Master Firebeard, what do you think?" Elisif asked.

"I concur with the General on this matter, my Jarl," the older Nord answered. "Now is not the time for rash action."

"But according to this report," Elisif continued, her tone somewhat taken aback. "The leading citizen of Riften, Maven Black-Briar, is being called a usurer and a tyrant, who has ingratiated herself to the Jarl and abuses her position to fill her pockets and increase the suffering of the people of Riften!"

"Merely rumors, my Jarl," another voice added. Crixus recognized that voice as the self-important fop Erikur. "Fables crafted to place blame on those more fortunate than others."

"Erikur," Master Firebeard said to the newcomer. "Don't you have some businesses to run?"

"The welfare of Solitude _is_ my business, Falk Firebeard," said Erikur. "My Jarl, as you most certainly know, Maven Black-Briar is a name well-known throughout Skyrim and beyond for her honey mead. It is the toast of every tavern from Wayrest to Solstheim! It would be unwise to trust these malicious lies against her."

"Erikur is right," General Tullius added. "Besides, my sources inform me that Maven is friends with the Thalmor ambassador. We could use someone like that to gain inside knowledge on their activities."

"So you advise that I do nothing?" Elisif asked. "That I let the suffering of the people of Riften go unanswered?"

"My Jarl!" Falk Firebeard suddenly exclaimed. "I would never _dream_ to tell you what to do! You are our Jarl, and our future High Queen! You must decide for us all."

There was a moment of silence, after which Elisif finally spoke. "Master Firebeard, I leave this matter in your hands. Do with it as you will. General, Legate, Falk, Erikur, if you will excuse me, I wish to retire to my quarters."

Crixus did not know exactly what had happened above, or what the situation in Riften was - nor did he care much about the latter - but he could hear the consternation in Elisif's voice. He remembered that when, as a young man of twenty four, he had been sent to Mournhold to serve as prefect in his 'dead end post.' Most of the Redoran hegemony or Arognian war-lords who owned the city before him had great influence prior to his return. They knew that the Empire's presence in Morrowind was a piece-meal and they were not afraid to flaunt their power and influence in front of Crixus' face, attempting to cow him into submission by thinly-veiled threats, 'helpful' advisers whose agenda was to undermine his authority, and whatnot. Crixus learned after a while how to fight these kinds of people, but he saw that Elisif, being even younger than he was, he deemed, was inexperienced and naive. He pitied her her situation, that she had not the High King to help her or, better yet, to rule in her stead.

"Servius Crixus!" a voice announced. "The General will speak to you now!"

Crixus walked up the stairs to the throne room. The throne was empty, though Crixus noted blond Erikur glancing down at it and running his hand down the arm-rest. Falk Firebeard was nearby, looking over a few letters and announcements that had been set on a table aside for him. Nearby, he saw General Tullius and Legate Rikke.

"Crixus," General Tullius greeted. "You know, we sincerely have to do something about your attire soon. If you're to fight for the Empire, you'll need to be in uniform or I can't even speak to you."

"Isn't that the point, sir?" Crixus asked. "I'm a spy, spies don't wear uniforms."

"You may need to fight on the battlefield soon," General Tullius stated. "Especially once we know what Ulfric's going to do."

Crixus lowered his head. He understood the General's subtle suggestion, but he did not know how to proceed. Should he tell him that he had failed, or tell him what the guards had told him? Would the General believe that the guards had been that foolish to blather their plans before a spy?

"I have it on good authority," he said at last. "That the next attack may be at Whiterun."

"I told you, sir!" Legate Rikke stated.

"It doesn't make any damned sense!" General Tullius retorted. "Ulfric would be more of a fool than I originally thought if he plans to attack Whiterun. He doesn't have the men for that kind of attack."

"Maybe not in Morning Star," Rikke began. "But my scouts tell me that every day, more men and women are joining his cause."

"Your spies, you mean," General Tullius corrected.

"Scouts, sir," Rikke replied. "The Empire does not spy on its own citizens."

General Tullius shook his head. "It's no cause, what this Ulfric is doing, it's a fucking insurrection, a rebellion!"

"You don't have to preach to me, General," Rikke replied. "But nevertheless, the man's going to attack Whiterun."

"And what of the Jarl, this...Balgruuf the Greater?"

"He refuses our right to garrison troops in his hold," Rikke stated, then added with a disgusted tone. "On the other hand, he also refuses to acknowledge Ulfric's claim."

"And that bothers you, Legate?" Crixus asked.

"He denies the Empire its right!" Rikke retorted. "_That_ bothers me!"

"Why?" General Tullius asked, turning his back on the Legate. "If he wants to stand outside the Empire's protection, so be it. Let Ulfric pillage his city!"

"Hear hear!" Crixus added, a smile on his face.

"General!" Rikke interjected. "Whiterun is a loyal hold. There are good people there, honest, trust-worthy people who serve the Empire: Clan Battle-Born are the wealthiest and most renowned of the great clans of Whiterun. We can't let them be raped and murdered by Ulfric's band of thugs and vagabonds."

"Oh, you people and your damned Jarls!" General Tullius grumbled underneath his breath, just loud enough for both Crixus and Rikke to hear his words.

"Maybe things will change, sir," Rikke stated. "After the war is over. The progress the Empire has made in culturing Bruma _can_ be repeated in Skyrim."

"_If_ we win, that is," General Tullius retorted, turning around to face the Legate. "Whiterun is the lynch-pin in this great game. But if Ulfric is going to try to take it, we need to be there to stop him!"

"You can't force a Nord to accept help he hasn't asked for, sir," Legate RIkke returned.

"You Nords and your bloody sense of honor," General Tullius grumbled.

"Sir?" Legate Rikke asked.

"You heard the General," Crixus interjected. "And I've seen what you Nords and your honor can do in the thick of battle: everyone dies because of it. If that's the way your people are going to behave, then I say fuck Skyrim! Let this whole damned country fall into the sea!"

"General!" Rikke interjected. "You're not going to let him get away with that, are you?"

"Crixus, remember what I told you," General Tullius said to Crixus, casually looking his way and winking at him before turning to the Legate with a sigh. "Alright, we'll draft another letter with the usual platitudes. This time, use what Crixus picked up for us regarding Ulfric's plans. Embellish if you have to. We'll let it seem like it was his idea."

"Yes, sir," Rikke saluted with arm outstretched, then walked out of the throne room. General Tullius then turned to Crixus.

"First of all," he stated. "I want to thank you for this information. There'll be a military commission for you tomorrow, as well as some proper clothes."

"I'm already a pref..." Crixus was interrupted.

"And don't you ever fucking interrupt me when I'm talking to the Legate," he retorted, pointing to Crixus. "Remember who's in charge here!"

"Isn't Elisif in charge?" Crixus asked. "As you are so fond of reminding me when I mention the short-comings of these Nords, this _is_ Skyrim, after all."

"Elisif?" the General scoffed. "She's a means to an end. Moot or no moot, she _will_ become High Queen once we've dealt with Ulfric. And Skyrim will go back to being another province of the Empire as it should be. But until then, _I_ am the governor of this province, the prefect if you wish to use the old Colovian term. My word is law, and my word, Crixus...is that you show me some respect!"

Crixus nodded, then performed the salute: fist pounded against heart, then raised out with open palm before him. "Yes, sir."

Tullius left, muttering a grim: "Long live the Empire" before he departed. Crixus frustratedly began walking the halls to the left of the throne room, trying to clear his mind. He wanted to serve the Empire, or at least that was what he was telling himself. Yet there were still so many unanswered questions: too many came to mind _after _his private audience with the Emperor. Now here he was, a rebel at heart, being told to serve the Empire again, as he had served them during the War when he was rewarded with a dead end prefecture in Mournhold. He had no ill-will towards General Tullius, only that he wanted the General to know of his dissatisfaction: or maybe he wanted the Empire, or the Emperor, to know?

* * *

Walking down the hall, he came to a place where he saw there was a door open ajar. He could hear gentle sobbing just beyond. Looking down the hallway, where he saw the two guards engaged in some kind of game of dice - he shook his head at how foolish these Nords were - he slipped into the room and saw that it was a wide room, filled with much furniture and a wide, double-bed with a book-case on one end of the wall.

In the room there stood Elisif, her face buried in her hands. It was the first time he noticed her alone, away from the throne. She was indeed small-framed, a petite little thing, so un-Nord-like. Her royal robes were crimson, though sleeves and ceremonial cloak were of gold and yellow thread, and the fur of a white wolf was upon her shoulders.

"My lady," Crixus greeted. The Jarl turned about and gasped when she saw the bald, grizzled and fur-clad Imperial ranger before her, his boots caked in mud and Divines knew what else.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Forgive me," he bowed. "I heard your sobbing and thought you might enjoy some company. I will leave..." He began to walk away.

"No, wait!" the Jarl interjected. "Please, stay. Uh, where are my manners? Please, have a seat." She gestured to one of the chairs at a table on the side of her room closest to the door. Crixus walked over to the table, pulled a seat out for the Jarl and offered it to her. She sat down gracefully in it while Crixus pulled up his own seat.

"You're nothing if not a gentleman, sir," the Jarl replied with a smile.

"I am honored," he replied, remembering his manners.

"You seem very strange, sir," she continued. "You look like a warrior, fresh from a long, hard day of battle, yet you speak so fairly."

"My family was well off," Crixus stated. "Well, not rich, exactly, but my mother's inheritance was rather substantial. My father spared no expense on us."

"Us?" she asked.

"My brother and I," Crixus replied.

"You come from a large family?" Elisif asked.

"On my mother's side," Crixus returned. "I only have one brother."

"I come from a very large family," Elisif began. "My mother Eldis used to say that my father, Ovyid Faraldsson, couldn't stay away from her bed-chamber for more than a day." She blinked back tears, then reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

"I am sorry, my lady," Crixus replied.

"He was going to visit _my_ bed-chamber," she said at last. "That very night, the night of the feast. And then..."

"It pains me to see one so fair suffer so," Crixus stated.

"I wish that he were here, with me," Elisif sniffled. "He would have known how to handle them."

"Them?" Crixus asked.

Elisif rose up from her chair and walked towards the door. Meanwhile, Crixus noticed a strange pink gem lying in a little box on the table. When he heard the door close behind him, he quickly stowed the gem into his pocket, then turned to Elisif.

"None of them trust me," she said at last. "General Tullius is just here to see the rebellion end, and for that, I commend him. But...he is a stern man who oversteps his bounds with me. Erikur is just a bully, and he walks over me as if I were a pebble on the beach. Falk, though, he's different. He was Torygg's adviser, then became my adviser when Torygg..." She sniffed.

"I'm sorry," Crixus repeated.

"I want to help, to do something," she continued. "But all of Falk's advice is the same: do what General Tullius thinks is best."

"But why not?" Crixus asked. "The Empire is your ally. They want to help secure your throne."

"Do you know I was the youngest of seven children?" she asked.

"I didn't know that," Crixus replied.

"Where they all went, I do not know," Elisif continued. "They probably left Skyrim long ago, seeking their fame and fortune somewhere else: maybe in High Rock or Cyrodiil or Hammerfell, somewhere exotic. But me, I was always the youngest, always pushed around, always told to be quiet, sit up straight and smile. My father arranged my marriage to Torygg, and at first I felt that I was just being used. Then I met Torygg and saw that he respected me, that he didn't want to use me at all. Now..." She sobbed again. "Now I don't know what I'll do without him!"

Crixus' head was growing weary from listening to her. Beyond curiosity, he knew not why he was here. Then suddenly Elisif turned to him: aside from the tears, she looked rather pretty. Her face was oval-shaped with a narrow chin, and her large blue eyes were strangely mesmerizing. It had been too long since he lay with a woman and already Crixus could feel his loins aching.

"My lady," he said at last. "You are tired. The stresses of your office are too great for you. You need to relax."

"If only that were possible," Elisif commented, stepping away from the door.

Quietly, Crixus rose up from his chair, then walked over behind Elisif. He removed her cloak and the wolf fur, then placed his hands gently upon her shoulders.

"What are you doing, sir?" Elisif asked, her voice coming out in soft, shallow breaths.

"I can help you relax," Crixus whispered.

"It's not right," she returned. "I...the court...my people..."

"You've thought of them for far too long," Crixus continued. "It's time you consider your own needs, my lady."

Gently he pushed against her shoulders. Her red-golden head fell back against his scruffy chin.

"You should leave," she gasped.

"Then order me to leave," Crixus returned.

But she could not do it. Or perhaps she did not wish to do it. Though his actions made her quiver from her shoulders to the tips of her toes, there was something that made her unwilling to send him away. Perhaps it was his closeness: she had never been this close with a man before, not even with Torygg. His death had made her far too lonely and having someone like him so close to her made her whole body feel warm and at peace. Therefore she said nothing and let his hands continue to rub her shoulders.

Crixus had now thrown off his fur coat, down to his old cotton shirt, which had long since faded and lost its true color. Before him the young Nord was sighing gently, seemingly at peace. He leaned in and planted a kiss on her neck, just below the back of her jaw-bone. Elisif sighed a bit louder and rested her head against Crixus' temple. Slowly he began moving his way down her neck, kissing her gently. Though she did not protest, he could feel her trembling beneath his hands, both of which were still resting on her shoulders. Of course he couldn't blame her: he was only sixteen when he first knew a woman, and he had been quaking like a tree in a storm. It must have been just his fortune that the camp follower who chose him was kinder to him on his first 'ride.' He felt obliged to return the favor.

Slowly he led her over to the bed, where they both sat down, with him kissing her neck all the while. She gasped again, her mouth agape, as Crixus did his work on her neck, with his right hand on her shoulder and his left hand creeping down to her dress. At first he merely gently pawed at her velvet dress, his fingers running back and forth against the red and gold fabric like the legs of a spider. Then his fingers began to pull the fabric up gently, slowly but steadily revealing a thin pale leg underneath the Jarl's dress. Slowly he moved his hand onto her soft, warm thigh, eliciting another sigh from the young woman's lips. It was slow and Crixus could feel his head grow dim: though he had done this many times, it never seemed to get old. His hand crept down and under Elisif's thigh, then, with one hand on her shoulder and the other on her thigh, he gently turned her over and laid her down face up on the bed.

For a moment they gazed up at each other silently, two pairs of blue eyes fixated upon the other. Elisif's chest was going up and down in slow, even breaths. She then let her head fall back down onto the pillow and closed her eyes. Crixus leaned in and kissed her: to his surprise, one hand came up, resting gently upon his shoulder. While their lips were pressed together, Crixus' left hand began to work its way up her leg, taking hold of her linen undergarments. She did not resist, even as she felt them being pulled down her leg. Crixus then parted and, pushing up her dress further, pulled her undergarments down to her ankles. Before another word could be said, he leaned in and began kissing her lips. There was a quiver of surprise that rippled through Elisif's legs and they clenched against his temples. This only made him go down deeper, seeking that which, after the first seven lays, he had finally found. He knew when he found it because Elisif groaned loudly, her breathing louder and heavier.

"No, p-please. S...oh, please stop!" Elisif cried out.

Crixus pulled away and, to his surprise, Elisif had pushed the skirt of her dress back down and was huddled up in a ball, gently sobbing into the pillow of her bed.

"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to keep himself calm. It had been a while since he had last lay, truly, but he wasn't keen on having it snatched away from him at the last moment.

"I'm sorry," Elisif sobbed. "I shouldn't have let you do that."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "I only wanted to help you relax."

"I know," Elisif returned. "But...no, that was too much."

Crixus scoffed. "Well, you didn't seem opposed to it before."

"Before you weren't eating my maiden-head," Elisif retorted.

"So what happened now?" Crixus asked.

"You wouldn't understand," she groaned.

"Try me."

Elisif let out a little wimper, then reached down with one hand and pulled her undergarments back up into the confines of her dress.

"Torygg and I never consummated our marriage," she said.

"I know, you told me..."

"It..." she hesitated. "Gods, I don't know what to say. I don't want to seem ungrateful: you were doubtless doing all you knew how to do to relax me."

"All I knew?" Crixus asked.

"Well, you just want to be a consort, right?" she asked. "Someone Tullius brought to keep my mind at ease."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I came here of my own will."

Elisif bit her lower lip, but didn't turn to Crixus. "I couldn't go any farther. It...it felt like I was betraying his memory."

Here Crixus had no words to respond. He understood perfectly what she meant. His mother, Claudia Crixus, had died giving birth to his younger brother Venerius. Though their father had remarried, Crixus knew there was some kind of animosity or unease between his father and Sedris Ulver. He remembered when, at the age of nine, he had walked in on them making love. Afterwards, his father explained to him about the ways of men and women and, even at age nine, young Crixus could tell that his father was uncomfortable talking about Claudia and Sedris in the same sentence. Even bringing up Claudia's name made his eyes start to water. Crixus never wanted to believe his stern father, a captain of the town guard in Anvil, was capable of crying: even to that day he repressed the memory, believing to himself that his father was incapable of shedding tears. But the truth was beyond even the imagination of his mind: Claudia's death had hurt Valerius Crixus deeply even years after the fact.

Even thinking about his father made Crixus ashamed at what he had done. He could not look at Jarl Elisif, not right now at least. He felt too ashamed of himself, coming here uninvited and practically forcing himself upon a grieving widow. Though he had done many things in his life that the 'weak' and 'simple-minded' would call 'evil', he always had a reason for doing those things: the greater good of the Empire or to keep the world turning as it should. Here he felt as though he had gone too far and did something that he had neither reason nor excuse.

"I am sorry," he sighed sincerely. "I shouldn't have done it. Forgive me, my lady and allow me to take my leave."

"Please don't go."

He turned back to Elisif, who repeated those three words. Even still he was surprised at how she had responded. By reason of her tears, he was half-expecting her to dismiss him herself: part of him, in fact, wanted to be dismissed. He knew he deserved to leave after what he did, and yet she _wanted_ him to stay. Turning to her, he saw her nod gently.

"Why?" he asked.

"I want you to stay," she stated.

"That doesn't answer my question, my lady," Crixus returned.

Elisif sighed, wiping the tears out of her eyes. "Because you're the first person to obey me since Torygg died. Because I don't want to be alone."

"Just no sex, right?" Crixus asked.

Elisif shook her head. "When I am ready, I will let you know. But for now, it's too soon."

Crixus nodded. Then turned his back as the Jarl stood up and readjusted her undergarments. Once in place, she sat back down on the bed, slowly turning to look Crixus in the eyes.

"Will you please stay?" she asked.

Crixus nodded. "If I may speak..."

"You may."

"Why did you say that no one has obeyed you since the High King?" he asked.

"Because they don't," Elisif sighed. "All the thanes and courtiers act like I'm an ignorant little child. They do what Falk Firebeard or General Tullius tell them to do, not me. And I'm the one supposed to be High Queen!"

"Don't you want to be?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Elisif replied. "I mean, my family was wealthy and I'm the one who was married to Torygg. And I love Skyrim and her people and I want the opportunity to do my best for them as their ruler. I'm willing to wait for the moot to decide."

"The moot?" Crixus asked.

"A meeting of the Jarls of Skyrim and their thanes," she began. "Early in the year, they assemble and decide on the next High King if the last one dies without an heir. General Tullius said that they would decide on me if I assisted him, but..."

"But what?"

"How am I expected to be a queen if they won't let me rule?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tullius, Falk and Erikur always object to my decisions," Elisif bemoaned. "It's like they don't want me to rule or gain the experience I need to rule well."

"And you can't stand up to them?" Crixus asked.

"You're asking me to stand up to General Tullius?"

"No," Crixus shook his head. "He knows what he's doing. But the others."

"Well, as much as it bothers me," Elisif continued. "They're right. Falk Firebeard is the steward, he knows how to run the city and everything that goes on at court. I trust his judgment and without him, I would be useless. Erikur is the richest person in the city apart from the East Empire delegates. He has powerful friends who insure that no proof of his actions ever escapes, but I know that he could bankrupt the entire city just to get what he wanted."

"You need to stand up to them," Crixus returned. "Or else they will always walk over you."

"Easy for you to say," Elisif returned. "You're a straight-forward man. No one else would have the audacity to walk into a Jarl's chamber and lay hands upon her."

"I wasn't born that way, you know," Crixus added. "I had to knock a few heads in Mounrhold, break a few skulls during the War, in order to get to where I am today."

"You fought in the Great War?" she asked.

"Yes, I did," Crixus nodded. "I was a young man, no older than you are now."

"But that was thirty years ago," Elisif exclaimed. "You don't even look that old!"

"I know," Crixus added. "People have been saying that ever since I turned thirty."

"How?"

"Do I look this young still?" Crixus smirked. "Well, my lady, you have your treasures..." He looked down at her lap. "...and I have mine, and like you, I won't share all of mine until the proper time."

Elisif sighed. "I don't know, I'm not built for standing up to people. Remember when I talked about my family?" Crixus nodded. "Well, I was the youngest of seven. All of my brothers and sisters were big and strong, but I was the little one. You'd think after seventeen years around them, I'd have grown to be tough-skinned, but it never happened. It just seemed that, no matter where I went, everyone was always pushing me around!"

Crixus reached out and placed his hand upon her shoulder. Not to caress or rub, but merely to rest there.

"It's tough," he said. "But perhaps with time, you will learn to stand on your own and rule as you should."

"Why do you care whether I rule or not?" she asked. "You're a foreigner."

Crixus once again was brought to a halt. He had no immediate answer to her, other than the fact that he wanted to see her succeed. He _wanted_ to see her rule as she should, not be intimidated by her advisers.

"Well," he returned at last. "Why do you keep me here after what I did?"

"I asked you first," Elisif replied. "And remember, I'm the Jarl."

Crixus smiled. "Call it respect for authority. You support the Empire and I love the Empire. Therefore you have my support."

"Well, then," Elisif replied, wiping her eyes dry of the last remnants of tears. "I should say that I haven't had one with whom I could confide everything. There was Torygg for a while, but now...no one. I suppose I was..." She cleared her throat, with a tiny "Pardon me" afterwards, then continued. "...I suppose that your boldness and straight-forwardness was a relief from all the double-talk and intrigue of the court. I need honest people around me."

"That's as good a start as any," Crixus added.

"Well then," Elisif asked. "We still have several hours before daylight. For now, I will send for some wine and ask you to tell me about yourself. We have not yet been formally introduced, good sir: you've come nigh to deflowering me and yet I don't even know your name."

"Wasn't I introduced before?" Crixus asked.

"I am so busy with things, I must have forgotten," Elisif replied. "Please, accept my apology."

"Of course," Crixus smiled. "As it stands, the name I gave as my own is a false one. I rarely use my proper name, except in the most dire of situations or with those I know I can trust. My right name is Servius Crixus."

"Then let us see to some wine," Elisif returned.

* * *

**(AN: Ugh, at this point, i could write anything and it wouldn't matter since nobody is reading or reviewing this story. Oh well, who cares. At least I'm getting some kind of enjoyment out of writing it...for now)**

**(When i originally conceived this scene, it came off much better. Yet when i started typing, it seemed to become unintentionally creepy. Maybe that was one of my reasons for having a cut-away to Elisif's mind [seemed out of place, since we haven't had a moment to really get into her personality-wise]. I also tried to make this scene - the you-know-what - dialogue light, since, going back and reading "The Oracle" and the titular chapter of _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, the dialogue in those scenes there just seemed goofy. And in case someone from the last two stories [lol, like anyone's reading this story] is reading this, no, "blue-balling" is not something i enjoy. Crixus gets way too much tail as it is, but this time it is different for a reason.)**


	16. A Conspiracy Written in Blood

**(AN: I can see how it would annoy some people, me asking for reviews at every chapter. The thing is i have quite a few demands on my time [i know it doesn't seem like it, but it's for real] and i need to keep looking for work. Without reviews, i don't know if my stories are of any interest to anyone but me and, as you've seen with my other massively large epic fics, it gets really boring when i have to pump out nine thousand+ [lol] word chapters for...nobody, especially when i have more productive things that i NEED to do.)**

**(Oh well, nobody cares...here is new chapter)**

* * *

**A Conspiracy Written in Blood  
**

Crixus could not sleep. The rest of the day he and Elisif Oyvidsdottir, Jarl of Solitude, had remained in her quarters, talking about each other's past over some fine wine. He enjoyed hearing about her life and she was thrilled by his many adventures during the War and afterward. With each tale he spun, Crixus had the distinct impression that Elisif was more than simply enthralled to listen, but enraptured as well. When he had asked her about it, she had only this to say.

"I suppose I wish that I could be strong like you," she had said. "Maybe then I would be able to rule Skyrim as I should."

When night finally settled down upon Skyrim, Crixus made as though he would leave, but Elisif stopped him. She asked if he would stay in her room. Needless to say, Crixus was surprised by this request and asked concerning it. Elisif's answer had been that she did not want to be alone that night, but Crixus stated that, for her sake, he would not share her bed. To that end, Elisif had her servants bring in a bed-roll and blanket for Crixus, who fell asleep that night at the foot of her bed.

But he could not sleep. Whether because the floor was so cold and hard, or whether he was still frustrated over what had happened, he did not fully understand. But sleep continued to evade him, though his body ached for sleep. At last, however, with sleep farther from him than Akavir in the far east, Crixus rose up and walked over to the table on the far-side of the Jarl's room. While walking, or rather, while dragging his feet wearily across the floor, he found again his jacket which had been left on the floor all that night. This was a simple leather traveling jacket over which went his fur cloak. Picking up the jacket, he fumbled towards the table and placed his jacket upon the back of a chair. Fumbling around a bit more, he finally found what he was looking for: his flint and tinder box. Using this, he struck a light and lit one of the candles on the three-branched silver candlestick on the Jarl's table. With the light, he pulled out from his jacket the bundle of letters he had kept with him since his third year in Mournhold.

Most of those letters were addressed to his office from the same place, the Maro Residence in the city of the County of Anvil, Imperial Province, Cyrodiil. He had never read them before but went to great lengths to ensure that they remained in good condition: the oldest of the letters was almost twenty years old. He had hired Telvanni wizards to place fire resistant and water-proofing spells, and when some of them asked why these letters remained unopened and unread, he gave them no answer. Tonight, however, he would read them. He plucked the first letter from the bundle, dated the sixteenth day of First Seed, Fourth Era 182. Crixus opened it up and read it silently, a look of regret passing over his face as he folded the letter back up and placed it back in its enchanted envelope. He then closed the envelope and reached for the next envelope, then halted.

Something passed through the edge of the candle's glow.

Closing his eyes and listening, he could discern just barely a sound over the soft sighed breaths of Elisif, deep in her sleep. The sound was of soft-soled shoes pressing gently against the tiles of the floor. Very slowly he tried to trace where the sound was coming from as he slowly opened his eyelids and reached for the knife he had used to open the first note. In one sudden move, he spun around and hurled the knife through the air, striking something that groaned loudly. He heard Elisif cry out in surprise, then her voice was muffled.

Crixus did not wait to think about what to do next, the Jarl's life was in danger. He leaped upon the bed, encountering something that was kneeling over where the Jarl lay. He knocked the body over, a loud cry sounding from where, upon knocking the assassin onto the ground, his knife was buried pommel, hilt and all into the assassin's body. There was a sudden sharp pain as the assassin stabbed wildly into Crixus' arm, but the experienced Colovian ranger was no fool when it came to defending himself. With one elbow he smashed the assassin's face, then seized the knife with his other hand, holding the assassin's hand that held the knife in a tight grip as he turned around, pinning the assassin beneath him.

Just then the door to the Jarl's bedroom was thrust open and four large guards in crimson tabards, leather armor and chain mail came barging into the room, pulling Crixus off the intruder before pinning him down. Behind them came the door guards with torches in hand and last came Falk Firebeard, throwing on his surcoat as he strode inside to see to the Jarl.

"Don't harm him!" Elisif said to the guards.

"My Jarl!" Falk interjected. "This man..."

"_This_ man did nothing," she gestured to Crixus. "I think he may have saved my life."

"Is that so?" Falk asked, turning to Crixus with a suspicious glance. "Now tell me, Colovian, what were you doing in the Jarl's bedroom?"

"I asked him to be here," Elisif interjected. "He wanted to read to me the tale of Queen Barenziah."

"With all due respect, my Jarl," Falk stated through clenched teeth. "I was asking _him_!"

"I wandered in here by mistake," Crixus replied. "But then when she heard me speak, she wanted me to read her the story of Barenziah. But the hour grew late and I guess we fell asleep.

Falk scoffed. "At the very least, you were here to stop this assassin."

"Master Firebeard," one of the guards said, fear in his voice. "You might want to take a look at this."

Falk made his way towards where the body lay, while Crixus followed closely behind. Crixus was surprised to see the dark-robed man he had encountered in the Blue Palace ante-chamber yesterday afternoon. But it was not the assassin so much as the weapon which was held in the assassin's hands that made the guard blanch with fear.

"Is that what I think it is?" one asked. "One of them Akaviri long-swords!"

"That ain't no Akaviri sword!" another guard retorted. "Them Blades is dead for thirty year. Can't be one of thems blades."

"It's the proper make," another added.

"I don't think it's that at all," a fourth guard added, shaking his head with fear.

"Go find Stentor!" Falk shouted. The fourth guard bolted back out the door, leaving Crixus to look at the blade. It was indeed in the style of the Akaviri long-swords, but it was made entirely out of gold.

"I've seen that blade before," Crixus added.

"You have?" Falk asked.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "It's called Goldbrand. The Emperor carried it during the Battle of the Red Ring."

"Then he _did_ wield it!" one of the guards exclaimed knowingly.

"All of you are sworn to silence," Crixus stated, looking at the guards. "None of you are to mention a word of this to anyone, no matter who they are or whatever they may threaten you with!"

Falk walked over to Crixus, whispering to him: "And what gives you the right to make my men hold their tongues?"

"That blade," Crixus whispered. "I've read up on it. The Nerevarine wielded it after rebuilding a daedric shrine Khartag Point. The daedric prince in question was Boethiah, the prince of plots."

"Plots?" Falk asked.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Plots, murder, deceit, conspiracy, assassination, treason, unlawful overthrow of authority. Wherever Boethiah reigns, Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal are not far behind."

"You seem to know quite a bit about the nobility of Oblivion, sir," Falk retorted suspiciously.

"My stepmother was a priestess of the New Tribunal," Crixus stated. "She brought her faith to my family. Thank your gods that I'm on your side."

"So, a daedric conspiracy to take down Jarl Elisif," Falk mused. "Do you think it could have something to do with the Stormcloaks? They worship Talos, who has been removed from the pantheon of the Church of the Divines, but daedra?"

"If I remember my history correctly," Crixus mused. "Daedric worship was always permissible in Skyrim. Perhaps Ulfric is trying to bring the old ways back. Fuck the Eight, worship Talos and the daedra!"

"That there's blasphemous!" one of the remaining guards added.

"Then let the Eight strike me down!" Crixus replied. He turned back to Falk. "But you will _still _keep this quiet!"

"Why?" Falk asked. "You said that Boethiah's sphere of influence is unlawful overthrow of authority. We should make this public, let it be known that Elisif _is_ the rightful ruler of Skyrim and denounce the Stormcloaks as traitors and heathens!"

"What would be the reaction," Crixus asked. "Were it publicly known that the Emperor wielded Goldbrand during the Battle of the Red Ring?"

Falk was stunned silent, while Crixus picked up the Goldbrand from one of the guards, who was examining it carefully and fearfully. After looking it over, he threw it back to the guards, who caught it as though they had just been thrown the Amulet of Kings which would surely break if it touched the ground.

"Lock that away somewhere," Crixus stated. "Make sure nobody knows where it is."

"But..." Falk interjected.

"This man wasn't just a simple assassin," Crixus added, wincing as he remembered the pain in his arm. "I didn't notice he was here until he was practically on top of the Jarl. And nobody would give Goldbrand to a sell-sword on an assassination mission of this great importance."

"Just what are you saying?" Falk asked.

"There's a conspiracy afoot," Crixus added. "Someone here wants Elisif dead, and they're willing to bring the daedra into the picture. It could be the Stormcloaks..."

"He ain't no rebel," one of the guards stated. "He ain't wearing no amulet 'o Talos. All them rebels wear one."

"It wouldn't be wise to rule out Stormcloak involvement," Crixus stated, turning back to Falk. "Not while concrete evidence hasn't been revealed yet."

Moments later there was the sound of boots running down the hall and the court wizard Sybille Stentor came running down into the Jarl's chamber, the fearful guard behind her. When she entered the dimly-lit room, Crixus swore he saw something in her eyes. Perhaps it was just a trick of the lights, or perhaps his own lack of sleep was playing tricks on his eyes, causing him to see things that were not there, but he could distinctly see something yellow-reddish in her eyes. The Breton woman walked over to the body and examined it.

"He's unconscious," she stated. "He's lost a lot of blood. I'll take him to the dungeon and make sure he's treated. There may yet be something I can glean from him." Then the sorceress' eyes fell upon the golden sword. "By the Eight! I've only heard legends of this sword! This is..."

"Goldbrand," Crixus interjected.

"It's one of the three known relics of the daedric prince Boethiah," Sybille added. "They're very powerful artifacts. Master Firebeard, this should be kept under close guard."

"We'll see to it," Falk added.

* * *

Crixus had been issued out of the Jarl's chambers, thrown his jacket and letters, and left to stand in the hallway for the rest of the night until morning dawned. By then he had finally passed out against the wall in a deep, wearied sleep. There was a sudden jolt and he woke up, being nudged awake by none other than the Nord Legate Rikke.

"What the fuck do you want?" he groaned.

"You're late for your own ceremony," the legate said. "Now get up with you!"

Crixus followed her over down the hallway, though she quickly walked ahead of him and said something to someone hidden away. Two Imperial soldiers appeared, who them quickly clad Crixus in light leather Imperial armor. It was not to Crixus' liking, he would have preferred a legate's steel armor if he was to wear an Imperial uniform, but the uniform was clean and new. Once he was thus clad, Legate Rikke pulled Crixus over into the throne room. There he saw many thanes in rich robes with their housecarls standing about them. Upon the throne sat Elisif, clad in her finest with a circlet of gold upon her head. Standing upon the dais with her was General Tullius in his gilded Imperial general's armor. Upon seeing the assemblage, Crixus humbly bent one knee down.

"Caius Servius Crixus," General Tullius greeted, using Crixus' true and false names, which earned him a wink from Crixus. "I presume you know the oath?"

"It's been thirty years since I last spoke it," Crixus muttered. "Perhaps we should go through it again."

General Tullius chuckled, then opened up a scroll, from which he read the oath that Crixus first took when he joined the Imperial Army. The general spoke first the words, then Crixus repeated them.

"Upon my honor, I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II, and unwavering obedience to the officers of the Empire. May those above judge me and those below take me if I fail in my duty." For the last part, Crixus placed his right hand in a fist upon his chest. "Long live the Emperor." Then he stretched out his right arm, opening his fist into a palm.

"Long live the Empire!"

General Tullius smiled, then leaned in and whispered in Crixus' ear. "The Jarl has a few words to say. Meet me in Castle Dour once this ceremony is over, I have another assignment for you. And for the sake of the Eight, wear your damn armor when you report for duty...soldier."

Crixus nodded as the general stepped aside and Elisif gracefully rose from her throne. In her hands was a gladius, a steel sword made in the fashion of the Imperial Legionnaires. Of all the swords Crixus had wielded, nothing compared to the Imperial gladius, double-edged and pointed. His own sword had slain many elves before that fateful day in the pass between the Dragontail and Wrothgarian Mountains.

"Servius Crixus," Elisif announced, speaking to all those about but to him as well, in a loud voice. "This morning, ere the sun rose, you saved my life. No one can truly show the gratitude of one whose life has been saved from death, no less a Jarl. I ask that you accept these trifles as a token of my gratitude and esteem for your person. By my right as Jarl of the city of Solitude in the hold of Haafingar, I name you Thane of Solitude and present you with this gladius, forged by our very own citizen Beirand in Castle Dour for my personal armory. You are hereby given leave to come and go in the Blue Palace freely and unannounced and have command over the guards of the city."

She held out the sword, which Crixus took from her hands and placed before her feet on the floor.

"Furthermore," she continued. "I hereby bestow upon you this silver circlet to notify your rank, three thousand golden septims and the deed to Proudspire Manor. It is one of the stateliest manors in the city, with a view of the bay. Lastly, I appoint you a huscarl to serve you as you have served me, as befits your office. Solitude owes you a debt of gratitude, friend. May the gods be with you."

There was applause from those gathered around as Elisif placed the silver circlet upon Crixus' bald head. Crixus then rose from his kneeling position, placing the gladius in his new sheath. Next he picked up the parchment and the sack of gold coins and turned to the crowds. They were still cheering him, even as he made his way down the stairs, ignoring the young woman with the golden hair following on behind him. As he was nearing the bottom, a familiar face leaned in.

"I must extend my personal congratulations on your accomplishments, Servius Crixus," Erikur stated condescendingly.

"Thank you," Crixus replied, trying to return condescension with apparent obliviousness.

"I must remind you, though," Erikur continued. "That I earned my place as thane by more than just my long-sword."

"Just what are you saying?" Crixus retorted, anger flashing in his eyes.

"These walls are not very thick, you know," Erikur stated. "So in the future, I would make my bed in Proudspire Manor rather than the Jarl's bedchamber. It would be embarrassing if news got out that the Jarl had taken up with an Imperial man-whore."

Crixus snarled at Erikur, causing the thin Nord to leap back in fear while he made his way towards the door. One quick stop at Proudspire Manor to inspect his newly acquired house, then he would report to Castle Dour.

* * *

**(AN: At least this chapter was mercifully shorter than the other ones.)  
**


	17. A New Approach

**(AN: Some iffy things at the end in case you were worried.)**

* * *

**A New Approach**

Crixus left the Blue Palace, feeling too light even in his leather Imperial armor. He looked about the houses to his left and right, trying to see which one was the Proudspire Manor. Though he was due in Castle Dour shortly, he felt that he could afford a few minutes' delay as he went to examine his new house. But there didn't seem to be any street signs nearby to indicate which one was the proper house.

"What are you looking for, my thane?" the voice of a young woman asked.

Crixus turned around to see a young woman who couldn't have been older than Jarl Elisif standing behind him. She was clad in steel armor in the local design and wore no war-paint or scars. On her back was a shield and on her belt was a sword. She looked far too young to be carrying a sword.

"Who the fuck are you?" Crixus asked.

"I'm Jordis, my thane. I'm your huscarl," the young woman replied.

Crixus laughed. "Go home, child. You're far too young for me."

"With all due respect, thane," Jordis replied. "I have served Jarl Elisif's family since I was ten!"

"How, is that a fact?" Crixus asked. "And what were you exactly, a chamber-maid?"

"I was Jarl Elisif's body-guard," Jordis retorted. "Until she married the High King and she came under the protection of his huscarl Bolgeir Bearclaw."

Crixus threw back his head and laughed again.

"What's so funny, my thane?"

"Oh, only in Skyrim would anyone be stupid enough to enlist a ten-year-old as a bodyguard!"

"My father served Thane Oyvid as his huscarl in his turn," Jordis returned, frustration rising in her voice. "I was asked to take his place once he died, but I was too young. When I came of age..."

"Do I look like I give a shite?" Crixus asked. "Run along back to the palace. I don't need you."

"Excuse me!" Jordis retorted, sounding positively angry by this point. "I was appointed to your service by the Jarl!"

"And your services are no longer required," Crixus stated. "Now go on back home to your parents."

"My parents are dead," Jordis stated angrily. "I have nobody left, except the Jarl and you."

"Then go back to her," Crixus returned. "Listen, in my experience, women are only good for two things, and you're too young for the first one. So get out of my way, I have things to look for."

"Like Proudspire Manor?" she asked.

"What the fuck do you know about that?"

"I was _there_, ass-hole!" Jordis shouted. "I heard when the Jarl bequeathed the house to you!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, girl!" Crixus retorted.

"I thought you didn't want me," she replied.

"You haven't left yet," Crixus pointed out.

"What does that have to do with..."

"Shut up, b*tch!" Crixus roared. "Now piss off! I don't need your help, I can find Proudspire Manor just fine on my own." He looked about the streets, paying the young girl behind him no mind. He then turned left, towards the main drag of town when he heard Jordis clear her throat behind him. He pretended not to have heard it.

"You're going the wrong way, you know," she stated.

"Shut up!" Crixus repeated. "I don't need your help."

"Oh really?" Jordis asked, crossing her arms across her breast-plate. "Well, it looks to me like you've never been around Solitude enough to know what's what. By the Eight, if only there were someone here who knew the lay of the city..."

"I said I don't need your help!" Crixus stated.

Jordis smirked sarcastically. "Well, then, good luck finding Proudspire Manor in the market district, because it's directly behind me. That three-story house next-door to the Bard's College? You completely walked past it without a second glance."

"Do I have to gag you to shut you up?" Crixus seethed through clenched teeth. Shaking his head in frustration, he walked over to the door in the bottom floor of the manor and tried the latch. It did not give. He knelt down and, pulling out his lock-picks, began trying to pry the lock open when there was a knock above his head. Looking up, he saw Jordis holding a key on a chain.

"Need something?"

"Bite me," Crixus groaned as he snatched the key from her hands and thrust it into the lock. Upon pushing the door open, he found a bare and dark basement waiting for him on the ground level. Feeling his way through the darkened basement, he finally found a pair of stone stairs leading up to a wooden door that was not locked. Opening the door, he came upon a stone room tiled with marble. It was markedly empty, but Crixus guessed that the three thousand drakes wouldn't last long filling this hole up.

"What a nice house!" Jordis exclaimed. "Few people in Solitude could have afforded this house. I tro it would even put a dent in Erikur's high-famed wealth."

"Can you just shut up already?" Crixus groaned.

"What is your problem?" she asked. "Can you not just make the best of a bad situation like I'm forced to do?"

"Can you not just shut up?" Crixus repeated.

Jordis groaned.

"Problem?" Crixus asked with a cheeky grin.

"You're being difficult!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the bare stone walls. "Gods, why can't you be grateful that the Jarl gave you someone to fight your battles, take orders from you or even, oh, I don't know, carry shit for you!"

Crixus scoffed. "You? You're so small, a goat could knock you down! What brain-dead fool let a little girl serve as a housecarl?"

"I'm seventeen, you ass-hole!" Jordis retorted. "I'm not a little girl!"

"Go ahead, b*tch, talk back to me," Crixus replied, a smug smile on his face. "I'll tell the Jarl all about it and have you punished for it."

Jordis did not respond. Crixus could see the young woman's mind striving to come up on top of the argument while endeavoring to discern what he had said. It mattered not to him, as long as she stopped following him. With a frustrated groan, he made his way towards the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Nowhere you can follow," Crixus replied.

"I'm your huscarl," Jordis reminded him. "I go wherever you follow."

"And I'm ordering you to stay here," he stated, gesturing to the floor of the house with his middle finger.

"But I'm a sword-maiden, not a steward!" Jordis retorted.

"You'd die the moment I set out from this city," Crixus chuckled. "Now you stay here and listen to what goes on in the Blue Palace while I'm away. I have another assignment."

* * *

He left out of a door across the room, closing it swiftly behind him and walking down the stairwell outside back onto the road. He hadn't felt this suffocated around Nord women since Eisa. Without a single look back, he went on his way towards Castle Dour, where General Tullius was awaiting him. He jogged the rest of the way there, without as much as a single look behind him. Into the courtyard he passed, where he saw the Imperial soldiers running their laps around the castle grounds. Straightway he went to the guards at the entrance to the keep and addressed them.

"If you see a young Nord woman in steel armor with blond hair behind me," Crixus said to them. "Take her back to Proudspire Manor, drag her if need be. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to show you the way."

"Yes, sir," one of the guards saluted as Crixus passed through the castle doors.

Inside the keep, towards the war room, General Tullius was removing his ceremonial armor with the help of a servant while Legate Rikke examined the map of Skyrim lying out on the table. Crixus approached, but the general did not recognize him until Rikke cleared her throat and gestured towards him.

"There you are!" he greeted. "Almost didn't recognize you in that uniform."

"Has it been that long?" Crixus asked.

"Since the Battle of the Red Ring?" Tullius replied. "Almost twenty-seven years. We were both younger then, though you had hair then and a beard."

Crixus chuckled. "Is this what you wanted of me? To reminisce on old times?"

"Plenty of time for that," General Tullius chuckled in return. "When we're returning to the Imperial City with Ulfric's head on a pike behind us. For now, however, I'd like to talk to you about your next assignment."

"Oh yes?" Crixus asked.

General Tullius placed his hand on Crixus' back and led him aside to a corner of the room.

"Your information about Whiterun will go a long way to our efforts," Tullius began. "I've sent a letter to Jarl Balgruuf, letting him know about what we've learned. From what Rikke's spies have gathered, Balgruuf's brother Hrongar and the Jarl's steward Proventus Avenicci are loyal to the Empire. If we can get them on our side, then perhaps garrisoning Whiterun against a Stormcloak attack will not be as difficult as it appears."

"Yes, General," Crixus replied.

"In the meanwhile," Tullius continued. "It would be foolish to believe that the Stormcloaks wouldn't have spies of their own. Ulfric's sudden escape from Solitude after his murder of the High King is proof that someone _in_ Solitude must have helped him escape. From what we have further gathered, there are likely more veterans of the Imperial Legion in the Stormcloaks. If you recall, General Jonna's legions consisted mostly of Nords. Those Stormcloaks who were ex-Legionnaires will know how we fight, Ulfric, another Legion veteran, knows how we fight. He will use this to attempt to circumvent our efforts. _We_ cannot assume that he won't."

"What are you suggesting, sir?"

"Whiterun is our objective," the general said. "But we cannot let Ulfric know that, or he will double his efforts and strike preemptively."

"Let him strike, then," Crixus replied. "The hasty blow often misses the mark."

"But if he strikes hard enough," Tullius stated. "He won't need to strike again: he'll have Whiterun and the war in his hands. That's why I want you to undertake another task; while our main forces will focus on gaining Whiterun, you will be sent behind enemy lines again. This time to Rifton."

"Riften!" Legate Rikke spoke up.

"Who gives a fuck what its called?" Crixus retorted.

"Stay focused, Crixus!" the general scolded. "Rift_en_, if you will, is just as significant to our efforts as Whiterun. There are still some mountain passes in the southern mountain ranges, ones that we could use for reinforcements."

"Do you really think this war will last that long?" Crixus asked.

"Gods forbid it does," Tullius returned. "But I for one intend on being prepared. Furthermore, Riften is but a short distance from Windhelm. Staging a siege from the city of Riften would be very advantageous to our cause."

Crixus shook his head. "I don't think the Rift has any strategic value. I've been there myself. The only way down is via a narrow goat-path near Nimalten. Hardly something worth dragging an army through."

"What about the main road to the east?" the general asked.

"Isn't it densely forested?" Crixus asked. "Besides, the Rift is on a plateau. Even the most idiotic rebel would be able to see us coming from there, since most of Windhelm, from what I've seen, is in a valley."

"It doesn't matter," General Tullius replied. "Because, ultimately, our goal is Whiterun. We want the rebels to be on their toes, to think that we're making a move against Riften while instead we're moving towards the center, towards Whiterun."

"So that's all I am, then?" Crixus asked. "A diversion?"

"To put it bluntly, yes," General Tullius returned. "I need you to make contact with the richest person in the Rift. Her name is Maven Black-Briar. I believe that she can be used as an agent to uncover secrets on what the Thalmor are doing, both here in Skyrim as well as in Cyrodiil."

Crixus chuckled. "Surely you don't believe those rumors about her being all-powerful? You know, having the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood in her pocket?"

"I've seen her around Solitude," Tullius stated. "She's sent messengers or gone in person to the Thalmor headquarters in Castle Dour."

"What?" Crixus asked. "There's Thalmor in Castle Dour?"

"I'm not at liberty to argue this, Crixus," the general replied. "All I want is for you to go to Riften and insure that we have Maven's support."

Crixus eyed General Tullius suspiciously. "And who do these orders come from?"

"They come from me," a voice stated, haughty and aristocratic.

Crixus turned around and saw an Altmer woman in the black and gilded robes of the Thalmor. He could tell that she was an Altmer by her height, she stood as tall as any Nord man, her golden skin, yellow eyes, oblong head with a high-domed forehead: the bony, skull-like facial features and cheek-bones were indicative of all elves. She did not walk but floated towards them, and she smiled as she faced them, as though she were playing a game to which she had already won.

"So, _this_ is my latest assistant?" she asked General Tullius, surveying Crixus with disapproval.

"Yes, lady ambassador," the general returned. He then turned to Crixus. "This is Elenwen, daughter of Lord Naarfin and Thalmor ambassador in Skyrim."

"Forgive me if I don't bow," Crixus retorted.

"That is not necessary...at least for now," Elenwen replied. "Servius Crixus, I presume? Your reputation certainly proceeds you. The famed butcher of Llywyn Pass."

"I did what I had to do to keep my men alive," Crixus returned.

"What you did was an outright act of anti-elvish aggression, typical of your kind," Elenwen replied calmly yet venomously. "The war was over, the White-Gold Concordant was already signed."

"We had no knowledge of that," Crixus added.

"Five years after the fact?" Elenwen laughed the same high, mocking laugh that Crixus used against the Nords he had yet encountered.

"Lady ambassador, please," General Tullius interjected, inclining his head in what Crixus would have otherwise recognized as a bow. "He is here as your assistant, according to our arrangement."

"I would have a word with him, general," Elenwen stated. She then turned to General Tullius. "Alone, if that's not too much trouble."

"Oh no, not too much trouble at all," General Tullius replied. He did it again, that gesture. Crixus did not want to believe that General Tullius, the Flavius Tullius he knew from the Siege of Bravil and the Battle of the Red Ring, would actually _bow_ to one of the Altmer, especially a Thalmor, the ruling class of the Aldmeri Dominion.

But there it was.

The general turned to Legate Rikke and ordered her to follow him out of the room. They left by the main way and closed the doors behind them. Once she was sure they were alone, Elenwen began to walk leisurely around Crixus, like a cat playing with her food rather than merely finishing it off out of mere sadistic delight.

"Tell me, Servius Crixus," Elenwen stated once the doors were sealed. "Why are we here?"

"For the glory and security of the Empire," Crixus replied.

Elenwen scoffed. "I don't care much why _you_ are here, or why General Tullius is here. I want you to tell me why _we_ are here."

Crixus nodded, realizing exactly whom she meant. "To quell the worship of Talos?"

Elenwen smiled. "If I am going to work with you under my command, there is something we absolutely _must_ clarify ere we continue." She halted, turned on her heel and glared down at Crixus. "First, _we_ are here to ensure the White-Gold Concordant is carried out, and all that that implies. Second, as your Emperor was the one who signed the White-Gold Concordant, your Empire is obligated to help us. To that end, you are serving us. Let us not mince words or hide behind false pretexts of loyalty or unity. The Empire serves the Dominion in the enforcement of the White-Gold Concordant."

"The Empire is here to bring peace," Crixus retorted through clenched teeth.

"Which means the quelling of this rebellion of ignorant, Talos-thumping Nords," Elenwen continued. "Our goals run parallel, and to that end, I have full authority, under the terms of the White-Gold Concordant, to use any means necessary to carry out that enforcement. Basically, I rule Skyrim."

Crixus stomach turned and his fists clenched as he heard the elf's brazen disregard for the Empire. But etched into his mind was General Tullius' almost mewling submission to her will, bowing before her when she asked him for solitude. It angered him to even consider the fact that the Empire, the bastion of reason, progress, morality and justice since the days of Uriel Septim VII, the father of the only man he would have worshiped as a god, was bowing down before the blood-thirsty, murdering, back-stabbing Thalmor.

"You have your orders to prepare Riften for take-over by the Empire," Elenwen continued. "I have something else to add to it. You are also to circumvent the probability of victory for either side: neither for the Stormcloaks nor for the Empire. Ensure that chaos reigns in Skyrim. But you will not know this: you will go from this castle without remembering a single word of what was spoken between us. Any attempts to remember it will cause you to have a furious head-ache, so profound and so painful that you will not attempt to remember it again. You will never discuss this with anyone, nor will any spell or potion you attempt to muster cause you to gain any knowledge. You will act for us under the belief that you service the Empire. Now, go outside and talk to your general. I am done with you."

Elenwen smiled at him, though Crixus could feel the condescension dripping from her smile like poison from the fangs of a serpent. Turning around, he made his way towards the door to the antechamber, pushing it open. He saw there Legate Rikke, but the general was gone. Once he closed the door behind himself, he tried to remember what had just happened. He recalled the general talking about going to Riften to speak with Maven Black-Briar, then suddenly his mind began to swim. A piercing pain like a moonstone elvish blade pounding against his helmet began to form on his right temple. His sight began to grow dim and his mind took him away to someplace where the pain seemed to vanish. He was inside a brothel, lying upon a luxurious crimson velvet bed with the ample bosoms of three beautiful Colovian women as his pillows. At his waist one was polishing his long-sword with her mouth while another presented her own 'mouth' to his lips for his enjoyment.

Suddenly he heard a clank and realized that he was lying on Legate Rikke, his face against her steel breast-plate. She had her hands upon his shoulders, trying to push him off.

"What in T...ta-te...the White...by the White! What are you doing?" she demanded. "This is hardly professional behavior!"

"Wha?" Crixus groaned, his head still reeling. "What just...what happened?"

"You almost collapsed into me," Rikke retorted. "Now come on, get back up! On your feet, soldier!"

It was, needless to say, awkward. Both for Crixus and for Rikke. She was a hardened warrior and having this happen was not something she had expected to happen, nor was it welcome. Crixus, on the other hand, was also embarrassed for the same reason, but also by being so strangely light-headed that a Nord woman had to pull him back up onto her feet.

"Is everything alright?" she asked. "Do I have to tell General Tullius about this?"

"No, I..." Crixus began, massaging the side of his bald head. "I don't know what came over me."

"By the Eight!" she exclaimed. "What did that Thalmor b*tch say to you?"

"Thalmor?" Crixus asked. "There's Thalmor in Castle Dour?"

"Yes," she stated through clenched teeth. "I thought we already went over this."

"But why are they here?" Crixus asked. "Why are they _here_ in Castle Dour? What's their business in this civil war?"

Whatever Crixus had said, it seemed to anger Rikke quite a bit. "Fuck you, ass-hole."

"No, really, I want to know!" he continued.

"I consider this conversation over," she plainly retorted, then walked towards the door and out of the castle. Crixus was now left to, once again, ponder her words. To even consider that the Empire, which Crixus had been raised by his father, Valerius Crixus, to believe was the bastion of reason, progress, morality and justice since the days of Uriel Septim VII - the father of the only man he would have worshiped as a god - was now bowing down before the blood-thirsty, murdering, back-stabbing Thalmor who had been responsible for so much death - of men, women and children, men and mer alike, during the sacking of the Imperial City - had been unthinkable. Now here he was, in the safety of Castle Dour, but the Thalmor were present and the Imperial Legion treated it like a non-thing.

It would not be the first time, nor the last, when Servius Crixus doubted the Empire to which he had sworn his life to protect. But the mere notion of rebellion was unthinkable. The Empire was law and order, the only hope for reason and justice in a world filled with daedra-worshipers in the East, violent, ignorant drunks in the North and mewling pacifists in the West. Yet what had become of the Empire that he had loved and served so faithfully that it got him a dead-end prefecture in Mournhold and worse than a prison sentence in, of all places, Skyrim? Were they now _treating_ with the very same people who, thirty years ago, had tried to annihilate them all?

* * *

**(AN: This chapter was originally going to be just more boring filler, but I threw something in at the end that gives us some more intrigue. Also, according to Gregory Maguire logic, Legate Rikke and Crixus are now a thing because he passed out into her breast-plate.)**

**(Lol, I'm just kidding. Crixus gets way too much already in the story, as well as in the story to come [hell, he even dreams about getting some]. But speaking of Maguire, something that bothered me was Madam Morrible's spell from the book. It made me wonder if all of Elphaba's actions after that point were because of the enchantment she was under, including her failed attempt at killing Madam Morrible [and her failed attempt at suicide], as well as going to the West and getting Fiyero's family put in prison? So I went the way of the Manchurian Candidate here as well. Although Crixus won't try to kill himself, I don't think he'd go that far.)**


	18. A Murderer Among Thieves

**(AN: Title changed for double entendre and to make this a bit less obvious.)**

**(One of the many things people have complained about in _Skyrim_ is that not all the Imperials are alike. Some sound British while others sound Northern American. My explanation is, like I've said before, there are more than just "Imperials" living in Cyrodiil. Colovians refer to the people from the northern counties, the ones who have the British accents, while the Nibenese from the lower counties near the bay have the Northern American accents. There are probably more, but those are the main two I've brought up, and no, i won't go back to using "Cyrodilian" and "Imperial" usually denotes, in my stories at least, someone in the Legion.)**

**(Also, i feel that i should just say that this chapter gets _really_ dark towards the end, just as a warning to those who might be offended thereby)**

* * *

**A Murderer Among Thieves**

Crixus left Castle Dour immediately, doffing his uniform out front of the Blue Palace and having the servant-girl Erdi take it back to Proudspire Manor for him as well as to bring his own fur clothing out from the Palace. She was more than happy to oblige, gushing over how apparently enthralled she was of him. Crixus was slightly amused by the gesture and wondered what other favors Erdi was willing to bestow upon her 'knight in shining armor.'

From there he went straight-way to Bits and Pieces, the general store in the market district of Solitude, and purchased for himself a new suit of ranger's clothing. They were forest-hued, light-weight and warm clothing of light cloth and cured leather. With the new gear, he looked like nothing more than a common ranger or a poacher. To top this all off, he added a cloak with a hood, which he tied to his back and placed over it his bow and quiver. Into a leather sheath on his belt went the gladius, the Blade of Haafingar. It would be his to use for a very long time. Thus clad, he made his way to the Solitude stables and purchased a horse. From there he went as swiftly down the main road as he could, meeting no one on his way and talking to nobody else. He had a swift road eastward to take, one that would see no delay.

Even at full speed, he wagered there were still three days journey ahead of him. Now, at least, he would not be afraid of traveling through Whiterun. Hearing the Legate say that Whiterun was a loyal hold would have made him confident of there being no Thalmor presence there had he not heard rumor of Thalmor in Castle Dour. He tried to keep his mind focused on getting to Riften rather than drifting back to that morning. Just the thought of it began to make his head light and his vision bleary.

Throughout his journey, he spent little time looking around at the wonders of Skyrim. To him, they were of little importance. Even during time of war, the green plains and the highlands of Cyrodiil were matchless in their beauty. Ever emblazoned on his mind were the images of the rolling hills, covered in green grass, and the tall birch, beach and oak trees in the western provinces. Cyrodiil was a place of beauty, majesty and enchantment, whereas Skyrim seemed to be a cheap imitation thereof, cold, gray and bleak even in the face of the coming spring.

* * *

By the third day, he had retraced the journey he and Marcurio made, aside from the needless trek through the Pale. In his heart he knew it was a bad mistake, but he continued to make excuses therefore. He was unfamiliar with the land, still wary about the Thalmor presence. There had to be good reasons for what he did, there just had to be. He thought back on Marcurio, and how they had parted. Despite their altercations, their parting seemed to be cordial enough. He wondered about going north and seeing him again. Would he be interested in joining his company again?

As the day came to a close, Crixus was now on his way into Riften. The day guards had already retired and the night watch now patrolled the gates of the city. Hitching his horse to the stables, he made his way into the dark town streets, wondering if he should call on the inn. Suddenly he felt something touch his thigh. In a swift motion, he turned around and had picked up a little boy who was holding something in his hand.

"Not so fast, are you?" he asked. "Now give it to me, you little Nord scum, and I won't cut off your hand."

The boy dropped the thing on the ground, to which Crixus threw him down and let him run away. Idly he picked up what the boy had tried to steal: a single blue gem. Then he remembered why he had this particular gem. That woman at the Bunkhouse named Haelga had given it to him. A grin appeared on his face as he thought of what he might do once to her once he had presented the gem. A warm bed and a good tumble were more than satisfactory in his mind.

In the morning he arose later, after the sun had risen. The first thing he saw when he arose was long, disheveled golden hair draped across his chest and warm lips around his long-sword. Gently he reached over and tugged on her hair. Haelga lifted her head up, wiped the corner of her mouth, then crawled over and rested her head upon his chest.

"It's good to have you back in Riften," she purred.

"So I see," Crixus returned, sighing contentedly. "But, as much as I'd love to just stay here and do this, I have work to do."

"You've come to the wrong place," Haelga replied. "The Thieves Guild make finding work almost impossible." She sighed in frustration.

"That bad, huh?" Crixus asked, not believing a word of it.

"They make it hard for everyone," she groaned. "If you want my advice, keep your head down and don't make a scene. I hear they're recruiting."

Crixus smirked slightly, wondering if he could still find the red-haired Nord who had hired him to frame the Dunmer Brand-Shei. It had been a long while but he still remembered how it went, a clever ruse and all with little payoff. But he had promised more and funds would definitely be short, especially after buying furnishings for Proudspire Manor.

"I take it," he asked. "They've been giving you trouble?"

Haelga rolled her eyes. "They keep demanding money or else they'll 'let slip' that I've opened my legs to all the good workers of this town. Their wives won't be too happy about it, of course, and I'll lose my customers. Be forced to open my doors to any rabble, just like Talen-Jei at the Bee and Barb. Or likely those Mara fanatics at the temple will hound me down into the lower levels, where all the cheap whores and cut-purses scrounge like rats."

"Look, you won't get any sympathy from me," Crixus replied. "I'm just the guy who fucks you, I don't pay your debts for you."

"I wasn't asking," Haelga replied. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."

* * *

After getting dressed and enjoying a light breakfast with Haelga, Crixus went on his way about the streets of Riften. There was a chill in the air and a staleness like many long years of mold gathering dust below his feet. Straightway he went to the town-square, where he last encountered Brynjolf. He was not there and there was no indication that he was anywhere nearby. Crixus sighed, then noticed a young Nibenese man looking nervously this way and that.

"Can I help you?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, a fellow from the heartlands," the man greeted. "Yes, you didn't happen to see a rather tall Nord woman with strawberry blond hair and a big blue streak on the left side of her face?" He made wide, expansive and a bit exaggerated gestures while he described his quarry.

Crixus chuckled. "What you've described isn't much different than anyone else around here in Skyrim."

"Oh no, friend," the Nibenese man shook his head. "She's one in a million. She's half the size of a giant, yet has the tender heart of a Colovian mountain lion protecting her cubs. She's strong but beautiful, stern but loyal, battle-hungry yet peace-loving!"

"She seems like a pile of contradictions," Crixus retorted.

"She's a very unique woman," the young man replied. "Oh, but by the Eight, I've never seen her so upset as of late. This city _really_ seems to get to her."

Crixus scoffed. "You sound like you're in love."

"Oh, who couldn't love her?" the young man asked. "I mean, she's the nicest, warmest person you'll ever meet. She's been everywhere, all over Tamriel! You should listen to the stories she has to tell about all the interesting places she's been to! It's amazing!"

Crixus began looking about, trying to keep his attention away from the young man. He was starting to bore him with this constant blathering on about some self-righteous 'picture perfect' Nord warrior woman. If anything, Crixus wondered, she was probably a big fat cow, just like the other 'warrior women' in Skyrim: all muscle and nothing that was anywhere near what a woman should be.

"Great story, sir," Crixus half-mockingly stated. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm looking for the red-haired Nord who used to frequent the market-square here in Riften."

"Oh, you mean Brynjolf?" the young man asked, shaking his head. "Ho ho, you don't want to go after him. He's one of the Thieves Guild, and you don't want to get involved with them!"

Crixus rolled his eyes, frustrated that another person was warning him about the Thieves Guild. If he wanted to spend his time among thieves, that was his prerogative. There was still an offer hanging over his head from Brynjolf, which he wondered if it was still available. He couldn't afford to be wasting time with this little man.

"Well," he replied. "Good fortune to you finding your lover."

"She's not my lover," he replied.

"She's not?" Crixus asked. "Well, I mean, the way you were talking about her..."

"No no, you misunderstand me," the young man replied. "She's so amazing, anyone could love her! But, as for me, well, I have different tastes, if you know what I mean."

Crixus refused to continue this endless and pointless conversation as he turned towards one of the guards, clad in the same hold guard leather armor, but with a violet tabard and a shield bearing the crossed-daggers. The guard was making his rounds patrolling the city streets when he passed by where Crixus and the young Nibenese man were standing and chatting. Crixus immediately broke off conversation and turned towards the hold guard.

"Hey, there! Guard!" he called out as he approached the guard.

"What do you need, Imperial?" the guard asked.

"What can you tell me about the Thieves Guild?" Crixus asked.

"The Thieves Guild?" scoffed the guard. "They used to run this city. Now they ain't nothing but braggarts and bullies, rotting to death down in them Ratway."

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. "Well then, if they're not much more than a nuisance, why don't you get rid of them?"

"Don't you be telling me how to do my job, Imperial," the guard retorted. "My orders come straight from the Jarl. When Laila the Law-giver decides to flush out the Thieves Guild, _then_ we'll do it."

"Right," Crixus replied. "So what about the Ratways?"

"The Ratways?" the guard exclaimed. "Do you got a death-wish, Imperial?"

"I'm new to town," Crixus replied. "Just want to know what's what here."

"The Ratways is the city under the city," the guard began. "Built over the ruins of the old city, what burnt to the ground under the rule of Jarl Hosgunn. It's dark and dangerous, full of pick-pockets, sneak-thieves, poor, diseased, loose men and women: ain't no place for decent folk."

"Right," Crixus said in the same condescending tone.

* * *

It did not take Crixus long to find the Ratways, even if the guards had not given him tell-tale directions. Riften was built on three levels, with the lowest level built just above the surface of Lake Honrich. The main level, which had the market-square and most of the city's streets and main houses and shops, was the second level, with the upper level houses above these. Crixus found a wooden ladder leading down into a fisherman's wharf at the bottom. Taking this down, he found himself nearby what looked like an old stone fortress, or at least the foundation of it. In that was a doorway leading down into a dark tunnel, outside of which were several people in ragged clothing.

_This must be the Ratways_, Crixus thought to himself.

Going inside was worse than what Crixus could have guessed. It was dark and cramped and the halls were filled with the poor, filthy and disreputable of all kinds. Many were Nords, but there were some Imperials, Redguards, an Orc or two, several Dunmer, and a Bosmer here or there. Crixus covered his belt and pockets with his cloak, eager to keep his possessions from being stolen by the people here. For whether Imperial or Nord, human or mer, those in the dimly-lit tunnel were eying him with distrust and disapproval.

"Hey there, stranger," a voice called out to him. "Care to have a good time with me?"

"Not right now," Crixus replied.

"Oh, come now," the voice continued. "Once you've been with Liette, you'll never want for anyone else."

"Is that right?" Crixus asked. "And what is that going to cost me?"

"No more than you can afford," Liette replied.

"Sorry, I'm busy," Crixus retorted, keeping on his way. But even as he was leaving, he felt a hand reaching for his belt. In one quick move he punched the would-be thief and took back what was his. Without another look back, he took off down the darkened corridor, trying to keep away from the sounds of shuffling, praying, sobbing, moaning or cackling along the walls.

Crixus felt his way through the rest of the dark tunnels, finally coming to a place where he found a door with light shining from underneath it. Whatever it was, it was away from those behind him and therefore he was more than willing to go there. Pushing open the door, he passed into a wide room with a domed ceiling and a cistern of water in the center. There was a strong scent of honey mead in the air, the sickly-sweet smell of Black-Briar mead. As he approached, he noticed in the back of the wide room a small tavern with several tables lined with chairs around the bar. A blond-haired man with thick side-burns reaching down to his chin approached Crixus as he neared him.

"Are you lost, friend?" the man asked. His voice was distinctly Colovian, but his hair was blond and he looked larger than usual people from the Heartlands.

"Never," Crixus replied.

"Smart-arse, huh?" asked the man. "We don't take kindly to that around here. A smashed head is what you'll get if you keep this up. You know why they call me 'Dirge?' It's because I'm the last thing you hear before they put your arse in the ground!"

"Look, I just want to talk to whoever is in charge," Crixus continued. "Brynjolf, I think his name is."

Dirge grunted. "The ginger at the bar is the one you want. Just don't make shite for the Man, or you'll hear from me."

Crixus stepped to Dirge's side, then walked over to the bar. There he saw the red-haired Brynjolf, sitting at the bar and sipping from a cup filled with the same sickly-sweet smelling Black-Briar mead. Crixus announced himself and Brynjolf turned around, a smile on his face as he saw who it was who had arrived.

"Well well," he greeted. "Look what the Khajiit dragged in. I thought you had business up in Solitude. That was your excuse for not coming down here the last time you were in town."

"My business has led me back here," Crixus stated. "Thought I'd use the time wisely."

"It's a good thing too," Brynjolf returned. "We've had a horrible string of misfortune lately. I'm pleased to see that not all of my prospects turn up empty."

"So what do you have for me, then?" Crixus asked.

"Let's go around the room, shall we?" Brynjolf stated. As Crixus rose up, Brynjolf shook his head, ordered a round of Black-Briar mead for Crixus, then began his private conversation with Crixus.

"This is the Ragged Flagon," he began. "It's been the headquarters of the Thieves Guild for generations, and it's also our own little slice of Oblivion: a pub and a house. I heard you talking with Dirge a moment ago..." He pointed towards the blond-haired man with the large side-burn chops. "...he's a bit...intense. But he keeps order around here. His brother is Maven Black-Briar's bodyguard Maul. He is a Nord and if you want to have all your limbs intact, I suggest you don't bring up the subject of Dirge and Maul's parentage to either of them."

"I'll keep that in mind," Crixus chuckled, taking a sip from the tankard Brynjolf had ordered for him. "And who's 'the Man?' Is that you?"

"Vekel is 'the Man'," Brynjolf stated, pointing to the dark-haired Nord behind the bar. "He runs the bar, but doesn't like newcomers. Stay clear of him unless you absolutely need to talk to him." He pointed towards a young Redguard sitting alone at one of the tables and smiled. "Stay away from Tonilla."

"What, is she a murderous rogue who will cut my cock off if I even dare to look at her?" Crixus chuckled.

"She's our fence," Brynjolf replied. "But _I_ will cut your cock off if you lay a hand on her."

Crixus chuckled. "Fair enough."

"Now that one," Brynjolf stated, pointing towards a young woman with blond hair and a sallow face with squinting eyes and a scowl upon her face. At first glance, Crixus almost thought she was an Altmer. "She's Vex. One of our finest, just don't give her shit. She's not exactly one for it." He then pointed to the man sitting next to her at their table. He was bald and clad in black dried leather.

"I think you'll like him," Brynjolf stated with a chuckle. "Delvin Mallory, one of our oldest members. Him and Mercer Frey, whom you'll meet after your first assignment, they've been in the Guild longer than any of us."

"Wait a minute," Crixus interjected. "Why are you telling me all this? For all you know, I might be a spy."

"A spy for who?" Brynjolf laughed. "Look, nobody in Riften has the balls to go up against the Thieves Guild. Maven Black-Briar has made sure to keep the city guards from coming down here or messing with us."

Crixus scoffed. "You mean to tell me that's actually _true_ what they say about her having the Thieves Guild in her pocket?"

"She doesn't own us," Brynjolf replied. "But we have an understanding: she helps us by keeping the guards out of our way, we help her in return. You know, you might want to pay attention to the rumors at the Bee and Barb or the Winking Skeever in Solitude. Sometimes those rumors are more truth than you seem to give them credit."

"Right," Crixus stated, nodding his head. "So what's my first assignment? Steal something from one of Maven Black-Briar's competitors?"

Brynjolf chuckled. "You have a sense of humor, that's good. Hopefully you're up to the challenge. I have big plans for the Thieves Guild, I want to see us out of this damned rut we've fallen into. But, like every big endeavor, we have to start small. Show the people of Riften that the Thieves Guild are not to be trifled with anymore. Once we've earned their respect, we'll shoot for the more challenging tasks."

"Always looking for a newer and greater challenge," Crixus smiled. "I like that."

"Then you'll love what we do," Brynjolf replied. "But, as I said, we have to start small, rebuild our reputation around here. There are some people in the city that owe us money. They think because the guards laugh at us and snap their fingers in our direction, calling us rabble, that they can get out of paying their dues. It's time to prove them wrong."

"So what do I do?" Crixus asked.

"I've already got Sapphire, our youngest member, doing some of the tougher jobs," Brynjolf continued. "Since you're new, I'll give you something that shouldn't be too difficult for someone of your talents. Three people need money collected from: one's a shopkeeper named Bersi, the other is the Argonian Kee-Rava at the Bee and Barb, and the other is Haelga at the Bunkhouse."

"Go on."

"Bersi owns the Pawned Prawn general goods store near the Black-Briar Meadery," Brynjolf stated. "He needed money for stock, so we lent it to him. Now we need that money back." He held up his hand suddenly, as if he expected Crixus' response. "No blood-shed, though. We ain't the Dark Brotherhood, we don't kill people. We have more...sophisticated ways of getting rid of people who harm us. But we don't need Bersi out of the picture, we need his money. There's an old Dwemer vase in his shop, it's a prize of his. Break it and he'll undoubtedly give you what you want."

"And the others?"

"Kee-Rava went into debt when she and her husband Talen-Jei failed to pay their protection money," Brynjolf continued. "We gave them a month extension on their debt: it's been three months now. It's time they paid up. If she isn't cooperative, bring up her family. She has some relatives living on a kwama farm outside of Mournhold in mainland Morrowind. The threat of us pressing them into service should be enough to convince her to give us what she owes.

"Lastly, there's Haelga. A loose woman who opens her legs to every man in town. When she had the audacity to sleep with one of our former members, we demanded payment. Let her bed the working folk of this town and leave the Thieves Guild alone. All I can tell you is that she's a worshiper of the love goddess Dibella, if that's still which one who's goddess of that. You're on your own from here as far as finding out how to get her to pay up."

"I think I can persuade her," Crixus mused.

* * *

Crixus had to pick his way through the people behind him to get back up into the city streets. But once he was there, among the bright lights of the mid afternoon sun, he wondered what he should do next. He had a task ahead of him, the collecting of the debts. That would take little trouble, especially considering how open the town guards could be with information. Just a few properly worded questions and they'd tell him which way the Pawned Prawn could be found. The others, he knew where to find them.

But just then as he was looking about, he saw a dark, rather run-down little building made of stone and wood nestled against the stone walls of the keep at the southern end of the town. Taking a step closer, he thought he heard some shouting from inside, then turned away moments later. While he was thus musing, a Bosmer woman clad in a simple dress with a low-cut neck-line and a slash through the skirt to reveal her leg as far as her knee, walked up behind Crixus.

"How about now?" she asked. Crixus recognized the voice from one of those from the Ratways.

"You again?" he asked.

"No one can resist my charms, stranger," Liette purred. She then noticed what he was looking at and mocked. "Or perhaps your tastes run to younger folk."

"I'm not that wretched," Crixus retorted.

"Still, anything would be better for them than spending a day in Honorhall Orphanage," Liette continued. "There are plenty of young people in the Ratways who grew up in that orphanage. They have nothing good to say about it."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "What will it take for me to get rid of you?"

"You know the answer, don't you?" she asked, her solid black eye winking seductively.

In the end, Crixus obliged. Mostly just to get her out of his way, but it was at least something. She led him to a little back alley-way in the lower quarters and he rode her like a troll in heat. By the time he had paid her, the sun was already westering across the surface of Lake Honrich. So much for getting work done today. But he did not begrudge himself this tiny pleasure: there would definitely be time tomorrow to carry out his work. But as he was putting his clothes back on, his mind went to that dark building and the sounds of yelling coming from inside.

Dressed and armed, he made his way down the darkening streets towards the keep and the dark house. Quietly he made his way over to the door. He did not try to shake the door or try the handle: from what Liette had said, it was the orphanage and it was undoubtedly locked. Out came the picks and within minutes he had pushed the door open. Inside there was a short passageway leading into a wider room just to his left. Looking up, he saw wooden rafters lining the ceiling. But just then, as he cast his eyes down, he saw a little boy, no older than five, staring at him with wide eyes and a fearful expression on his face. Crxius pressed his finger to his lips, then the boy turned away and cried: "Grelod! Grelod! There's a scary man at the door!" Cursing the child under his breath, Crixus leaped up onto a chair, pushed himself off it and clung to the rafters.

Below, he saw the little boy pointing to where Crixus had been a moment ago. Behind him was an old woman hunched over with age. She had a hatchet-like face with a beakish nose and spoke swiftly in an ill-tempered manner.

"What did I tell you about telling stories, Dagi?" she roared.

"I didn't tell no stories!" the boy replied, fear dripping from his words. "He was right there, standing in the doorway!"

Suddenly Crixus saw the old woman strike the boy on the back of his head. "You'll spend all night in the back-room if you keep this up!"

"I don't wanna go in the back-room!" the boy suddenly broke down.

"You'll go in there if I say you'll go in there!" the woman retorted, kicking the boy down onto the floor. "And no crying, or you'll go straight to the back-room with a sound thrashing!" She then turned to the other room, where Crixus saw several children looking terrified or sad or angry standing about, with their heads bowed. As the old woman approached them, her movements reminded Crixus of the fabled hagravens.

"And that goes for you all too!" she retorted. "If I hear any blubbering out of any of you, I'll chain you up in the back-room and whip you until you can't cry anymore! Any of you talk back to me, I won't even bother with the back-room, I'll just beat you here myself. Anyone who wakes up late gets three sound beatings, anyone who doesn't finish their meals gets four, and those who shirk their chores get extra beatings!"

"But there's hardly enough food to feed all of us!" an eleven-year-old girl spoke up. Before anyone could speak, the old woman had descended upon her, cuffing her a blow across the side of her head.

"You little mud-crabs are fat enough as it is!" the old woman roared. "You'll get no more than I've rationed for you. Anyone who asks for more gets five beatings!"

"But the food is awful!" a little boy of ten whined. The old woman struck him across the back with a cane in her hand which Crixus guessed was rarely ever used as a prop.

"Ungrateful little brat!" she roared. "You _will_ eat your food, all of it, and you will enjoy it! Do I make myself clear?"

The other children, however, seemed to have less fight in them. They all droned the same response: "Yes, Grelod."

"And one more thing," old Grelod stated, holding up her cane under the chin of one of the boys. "I won't hear no talk about adoptions, or you'll lose your outing privileges, have your meals taken away, and _then_ I'll lock you in the back-room for a whole week with whippings three times a day! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Grelod," droned the children.

"None of you riff-raff is getting adopted, ever!" Grelod barked, turning towards the other children. "Nobody needs you, nobody wants you, nobody even loves you. That's why you're all here, my pretties. Why you'll _always_ be here until you're sixteen and I kick you out into the terrible world outside those doors! Now, what do you all say?"

"We love you, Grelod," droned the children unconvincingly. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Hmph, that's more like it," Grelod grumbled. "Now off to bed with you little gutter-snipes. If I find you're still awake, you'll spend the night in the back-room!"

The children began to disperse to their beds while Crixus clung to the rafters above. The old woman Grelod seemed to be just as nasty as Aventus Aretino had described her. It did not matter to Crixus why she did what she did, or what her motivations were or whether or not she deserved it, or whether her behavior was because of any reason aside from her being a Nord: he knew that everyone would win if she died. In Grelod he saw all of Sedris' bile, which made him hate Grelod all the more, though he knew her not, and hate the memory of Sedris Ulver even more.

Quietly he crept above all their heads on the rafters, confident that what he was doing was right. All the rumors he heard of the Dark Brotherhood as a child seemed to tell him that they only killed bad people. Here he was doing that exact same thing: it made him feel like a hero out of some story book. He carefully made his way at last to the room at the far southern end of the orphanage. Here there were two rooms divided by a wall of wood. The old woman made her way into the one room, towards which Crixus turned. Quietly he descended from the rafters, then placed his left hand upon the old woman's mouth while the right had pushed a knife blade deep into her throat. The blade sliced through her skin with a satisfying squelch and Crixus lowered her body onto the floor so as to not make a sound.

Though his mind imagined that it was Sedris he was killing, he did not take pleasure in her death. Nor would he deface her body after death. The Empire certainly tortured its victims - Crixus wasn't as naive as Legate Rikke had been about Imperial spies to believe that the Empire would not resort to torture to get what it needed, that was only the most logical step - but he would not take part of it.

Quietly he made his way back up to the rafters and crossed over to the other side. He would not make a grand scene of things. Let them discover her passing in the morning: let it be a pleasant surprise for the children, something they would stumble upon with unexpected joy and adulation. For now, however, he had to get out of Honorhall as swiftly as he had entered. He was already planning his first acquisition of the payment Brynjolf had requested.

* * *

**(AN: There we go, two birds with one stone...kind of. ****I did change the persuasion for Haelga, since that will now have a personal means of persuading her. As far as the game goes, if she really does practice her arts of Dibella on everyone in town, why not threaten to expose her if she doesn't pay up instead of throwing her golden statue down a well? If those who don't like Imperial armor in _Skyrim_ because guards [who apparently have SO much free time] can "buy ebony plate mail armor" on their measly salaries can say that, then I can say that she can just buy another statue of Dibella from the Temple of Markarth. Should take about a week or so to arrive at the best. Also, while never named in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, you can be sure that Liette was the second woman Eirik slept with.)**

**(Also, here is an interesting tidbit. While playing through the game, as well as writing this story, Grelod was, to me, heavily inspired by the late Margaret Hamilton, renown for playing the green-skinned Wicked Witch of the West from 1939 film version of _The Wizard of Oz_, which would later be the inspiration for the character Elphaba in _Wicked_, both the book and the musical. So this will be the closest "that character" comes to being in a _Skyrim_ fic written by me, since the whiny, over-brooding, cynical lunatic from the book would be all "who cares about dragons or the Civil War? i don't even believe in Talos or Alduin!", while the borderline Elsa Sue from the musical would cause more harm than good)**


	19. Taking Care of Business

**(AN: Hmm, nice reviews so far. Thank you very much. By all means [fill in creative begging for reviews here, lol]. But seriously, I had this funny mental image of me writing out chapters for each of the Thieves Guild jobs with titles that were insufferable puns of the types of jobs. Like "A View to a Shill", "A Clean Sweep", "By the Numbers", "Back to Bedlam", "Gone Fishing", "A Feisty Heist" and the like. That comes from watching too much _Justice League!_)**

* * *

**Taking Care of Business**

Straightway from Honorhall Orphanage, Crixus found washed his hands and knife in the lake. Blood and spit were on them and, at least in Cyrodiil, it was known not to leave hands bloodied after a kill. Still feeling filthy, especially after his quick tumble with Liette, he considered diving into the lake and cleaning himself off. But one look at the lake made him think otherwise: there was most likely cleaner water in the Bunkhouse, which would be his first destination. If all went well, he could still be able to spend the night at her place while he made his first collection.

He made his way to the Bunkhouse and walked in, looking around for Haelga. At the counter in the front room there was a young woman who Crixus had not seen before. She gave him a look of disapproval.

"Make sure you wipe your boots off before you come dragging mud on the floors," she curtly said to Crixus. "I just cleaned them myself."

"And who are you?" Crixus asked.

"Svana Far-Shield," she replied. "Now, about your boots..."

Crixus dragged them against the fur mat upon the floor before the door, then made his way up to the counter.

"Is Haelga here?" he asked.

"Who wants to know?" Svana asked, her left eyebrow twitching upward with concealed interest.

"I don't know what you mean," Crixus replied, playing coy.

"You're either a customer," Svana replied. "Or someone's wife hired you to beat the shit out of my aunt."

"Haelga's your aunt?" Crixus asked.

"Surprised me too," Svana stated morosely. "The way she treats me, I'm more of a slave than her cousin. Now which is it?"

"Neither," Crixus lied.

Svana scoffed. "Come on, you have to be one or the other."

"Would it make you happier if I said I was a customer?" Crixus asked.

Svana scoffed again. "No. And don't you try hitting on me. I keep my legs crossed, thank you very much."

"Well, then what if I'm not a customer?" Crixus asked.

"I'd say that my aunt's not at home," Svana replied. "She said she had to see someone on a...private matter. Likely she's bent over a barrel somewhere with some fisherman or brewer hanging out of her like a drunk horker."

"You don't sound like you appreciate her all that well," Crixus stated.

"Appreciate?" scoffed Svana. "She's a bloody whore, that's what she is! I mean, yes, I know I should be grateful that she saved me from the orphanage, but by the gods, I have to put up with all these pigs she calls customers every damn day because she can't keep it to herself! Honestly, there's being devout and then there's _this!_"

"It's not like it's hurting anyone," Crixus added.

"You tell that to the wives whose husbands she's stolen," Svana fumed. "Oh, if only something would happen and she'd get what she deserves. That's what I'd love to see; my b*tchy aunt squirming like a worm drowning in her own filth."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Look, I need to talk to your aunt. Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Nine, I suppose," Svana sighed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean up the beds that never get used here."

Svana walked on to Crixus' right, where there was a room with several blankets laid out. True to what she had said, no one was lying there. Meanwhile, Crixus made his way back to the proprietress' room, just behind the counter. There he tore off his boots, sat down upon Haelga's bed and waited. Outside the day passed on into night while Crixus continued to wait. He fingered the packet of envelopes underneath his jacket, but did not touch them. What was the point? They were old letters, some of them more than twenty years old. Whatever they had to say was long since irrelevant and obsolete. He could never go back to that...he could never go back.

At last, at ten o'clock, Haelga finally returned to the Bunkhouse. She was surprised to see Crixus sitting on her bed, but not exactly unhappy. She was weary and asked for the night off, with the promise to let him inside first thing in the morning. She fell asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow, while Crixus merely gazed up at the ceiling to try to force himself to go to sleep. He was almost tempted to reach over and place his hand upon Haelga's soft, warm skin, just to have something warm to hold onto during the cold night. But it was not to be: he knew better than to get attached to the women he lay. They were out of his life within a few days and Haelga would be no different. Doubtless he thought she wouldn't want to speak to him after he let his intention be known.

* * *

When sleep finally fell upon Crixus' mind, he was once again trapped inside the valley in one of the longest winters seen in that part of Hammerfell or High Rock. Horns were blowing and he knew with dead certainty that the enemy were on their way. Throwing on his fur cloak, he ran into the war tent, where the other officers waited for him, a twenty-something Legionnaire who had been promoted to acting general by his commander. None of the others trusted him, he could tell by the condescending glare in their red eyes.

But they did not have red eyes, Crixus told himself. Then he realized that each of the officers were Sedris clad in Imperial armor, glaring back at him with red eyes. When they spoke, their voices were the harsh, raven-like croak of Grelod the Kind. Blood from an open knife wound was gushing from their necks, seeking to drown him out as it swirled and grew into a bloody ocean. With a cry he rose up suddenly from his sleep. It was all a dream, just like the others that had haunted him for twenty-one years, since the last day of the Battle of the Red Dog. They never got any easier, no matter how many women he laid with or how much spirits he drank. Always after the euphoria of unloading his volley into a woman's warm lap wore off or when he sobered up after a strong binge of drinking, the dreams came back. They always came back.

"What's wrong?" Haelga moaned beside him.

"What?"

"You're shaking all over, I can tell," she pointed out. "What, did you remember your wife is expecting you home?"

"I have no wife," Crixus replied.

"More for me, then," Haelga commented naughtily.

"I'd say I could go for that," Crixus stated.

For the next hour, Crixus and Haelga sent the bed rocking violently with their love-making. But Crixus had more on his mind than just another lay. Though it felt somewhat dishonest, many women in his life had done it before with him: it was only fair that he return the favor. He kept his mind on what he would do afterwards, keeping it focused on one thing as he made sport of Haelga, from tongue to lower lips. After he had played the field enough, he thrust into her nether regions with such fierceness that Haelga could scarcely contain herself. When they were at last done, on Haelga's word, he pulled his sword out of her moisten sheath and let it out on the blanket. While his head swam, he tried to keep the ecstasy from overwhelming him and kept on his task: this was for business, not exactly pleasure, and he could not let himself get too carried away. Haelga, meanwhile, _was_ getting carried away. She was curled up on her side of the bed, one hand between her legs, mumbling incoherently and biting her lip.

"Oh, sweet Dibella!" she sighed at last. "You've been holding back on me, haven't you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Crixus breathed, trying to center himself. "You-you were out late yesterday evening. Perhaps you found some young stud to do half of the work for me."

"Don't tease me, Crixus," Haelga breathed. "I never thought a-a man could ever give me the same feeling as Horkey does."

"Horkey?" Crixus asked.

"My horker tusk," Haelga breathed. "It's in my chest with my other things. I use it when there's a lull in business, but you...oh, gods above! That was amazing."

Crixus grinned, though inwardly he was asking himself if he had indeed heard what he thought he had heard: was Haelga admitting to pleasuring herself with the tusk of a horker? He felt a need to wash his most valued member even more than when he gave little Bosmer Liette a tumble.

"What can I say?" Crixus asked. "I aim to please. Besides, I've had more some experience."

"So have I," Haelga admitted. "But that was just...oh! Shit, I feel like I should be paying _you_ to stay here!"

Crixus grinned at his luck, then dove in - figuratively speaking - for the kill. "So you do have money?"

Haelga breathed, still caught up in the money. "Business hasn't been too slow lately."

"Then what about that debt you told me about last night?" he asked.

This seemed to snap her out of her euphoria. She turned over towards Crixus, one hand reaching for the blanket underneath her.

"Well," Crixus continued. "If you have enough money to consider paying me for riding you every other night, then why not start with paying off your debts? Never a good idea to get into debt, you know."

"Who have you been talking to?" Haelga asked, pulling the sheet up over her breasts.

"Lots of people," Crixus replied. "I've heard that you owe certain people money."

"Oh, please, let's not talk about this right now," Haelga moaned. "I'm in a great mood and I want to ride you again. Come on, I know you can't resist this..." She lowered the blanket down to her lap, revealing her breasts once again.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Crixus sighed.

"Mmm, that's what I like to hear," Haelga smiled, leaning in and planting a kiss on Crixus' lips. "So no more talk about this, alright?"

"Whatever...you say..." Crixus said in between kisses. "We won't...talk about...this. But...what if..."

"No what ifs, not tonight," Haelga whispered, slowly moving down his neck onto his hairless chest.

"Others will, though," he got out.

Haelga leaned up and looked at him carefully with her blue eyes. "What?"

"Well, you know," Crixus continued. "Word gets around fast in Skyrim. It won't be long until someone or other says the wrong thing at the Bee and Barb to the wrong person."

"Who did you tell?" Haelga asked, her voice no longer soft but venomous. He felt her hands clench his family jewels tightly below him. Straining hard against the pain from down below, he only let out a meager groan.

"No one," he returned.

"Tell me the truth!" she insisted, clenching tighter.

"Honestly, I haven't said a word," Crixus replied. "Could you let go of my balls now?"

"You better not tell anyone!" she seethed, releasing them but pulling her hand up in a threatening finger that waved in Crixus' face.

"Or what?" Crixus asked. "You'll revoke my privileges? You're not the only woman in Skyrim, you know. Doesn't really seem like that big of a loss, if you ask me, especially compared to what might happen if _they_ find out about you."

Haelga's face was unreadable. At once she was upset with Crixus and trying not to divulge her true feelings, while he could see them in her eyes. She was backed into a corner against a smart foe, one who struck while she was still high from the euphoria of sex rather than later when she could think clearer, with seemingly no way of escape.

"Just couldn't resist fucking me again, could you?" she asked.

"Hey, you know me." Crixus replied with a smirk.

"But you can't do it," she stated, her voice now desperate. "You know what they'll do to me if people knew. They just don't understand: they never had the same connection to Dibella that I have when I'm with a man."

"Connection?" Crixus asked. "You mean my cock connecting with your..."

"Oh, why am I even talking to you about this?" she groaned. "In fact, why are you even bothering with this? If you didn't approve, you wouldn't be giving it to me."

"Well, I really am not married, so it wouldn't be an issue with me," Crixus replied. "But, I don't sanction, I just want the money."

Haelga got up off her bed, walked over to the chest by her little shrine to Dibella and fished out a small bag of coins which jingled as she threw it towards Crixus.

"There," she said coldly. "Now get out."

"Thank you," Crixus replied, a smile on his face.

"Oh, why did the best lay in town have to come from the biggest prick?" Haelga mumbled to herself.

"Again, thank you," Crixus added. "I'll give your warmest regards to the Thieves Guild."

"Out!"

* * *

Crixus was disgusted. It was more than enough that he had to share the same hole as half of the men in Riften as well as a filthy horker tusk - he had seen them briefly while crossing the icy canyon in the Pale; mountains of reddish-orange blubber with three tusks in their hairy mouths. After leaving Haelga's Bunkhouse, he went to the Bee and Barb, purchased a room for himself and began trying to wash himself. Unfortunately, he had already spent the water in the silver basin in his room washing off his man-sword and he still needed to wash his hands and his mouth.

But that was not the greatest amount of disgust. After throwing his tunic and trousers back on, he went downstairs to find Talen-Jei, the Argonian proprietor of the inn. He asked if he could have more water for his room, which brought a puzzled expression on the lizard-man's face.

"Why do you need _more_ water?" he asked.

"For cleaning," Crixus replied.

"Is not the water upstairs sufficient?"

"I've already used it," he returned. "It's filthy."

"Here in Skyrim," Talen-Jei explained. "The Nords do not change the water in the bowls which they use to drink, wash, comb their hair or clear their big noses in."

"Fucking barbaric!" Crixus exclaimed.

"Perhaps for you lot down south," Talen-Jei continued. "As for me, it matters not. Water is water."

Crixus sighed, though he refused to put his hands or mouth into the same water that was just a moment ago on his dick. While the people of Skyrim might be barbaric, he would not stoop to their levels, even if he was unfortunate enough to be in Skyrim. He walked down the stairs towards the common room, trying to rid his mind of what he had experienced in Mournhold. Nobody washed down there, for there was a great ash-flow - two hundred years worth of it - from the Red Mountain and the Dunmer, according to tradition, never washed themselves to keep the ash from sticking to their bodies and their clothing.

Once in the common room, Crixus walked up to the bar, purchased a bottle of strong Argonian blood-wine, which he drank from swiftly, swirled it around and then spit out into the fire-place, causing a burst of flame. Kee-Rava, the Argonian woman behind the bar today, criticized him for wasting perfectly good blood-wine, but he didn't reply. Not time yet for her, since he still had his room on the line. They might just revoke his room and take his money if he approached her now. Give it an hour or so, maybe enough customers will drive it from her mind and allow Crixus to make his move then.

Quickly he left the Bee and Barb, climbed down to the lower level, and washed his hands in the lake. It was freezing cold and he afterwards feared that it would have been best to leave them as they were, but there wasn't anything else for it. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he went back up to his room, threw on his traveling gear and cloak, then made his way to the Pawned Prawn.

It was not very hard to find the Pawned Prawn. A beggar told him the way there, but, as the beggar had said, once you smelled the sickly-sweet odor of Black-Briar mead, it was just next door. Walking inside, he saw a simple wooden structure with shelves and crates and barrels and tables scattered throughout the middle-sized room. Upon those were practically anything one could ask for: a rack of weapons for the traveling adventurer, a wooden mannequin clad in steel armor, a book-shelf filled with books and scrolls, and flour, wheat, metal and other such useful things in bulk. Crixus made his way towards the counter, where a red-headed balding Nord, roughly his own age, he assumed, stood to greet him.

"Welcome to the Pawned Prawn," he greeted. "If there is anything I can help you find..."

"Oh, actually, there _is_ something I need help with," Crixus pointed out. "You see, I'm new in these parts. On my way to Falkreath tomorrow, but I need a good weapon. I'm afraid my last one was stolen from me while I was asleep in the Bee and Barb."

"The Thieves Guild, I tro," Bersi mused. "Don't know what's taking the Jarl so long. Won't take nothing but a small force to rout them out of the Ratways."

"I see, I see," Crixus nodded. "Anyway, I need a weapon. I went to Balimund's smithy, but he was out."

"Oh, I see," Bersi replied, a smile creeping onto his face. "Well, that is most unfortunate. He is the best blacksmith in Riften. But I have a few things here that might suit your style. What kind of weapon suits your style?"

"Something light-weight," Crixus added. "But with enough punch to crack a man's skull."

"I think I might have just the something you need," Bersi stated. He then stepped out from behind the counter and led Crixus over to the weapons rack: there was nobody else in the shop and no reason to watch the counter since the only other person was directly in his sight. He led Crixus over to the rack, but Crixus was looking at something else. It was a large stone urn, bound about the mouth and the mid-section at its widest point with Dwemer metal; copper that shone like gold and was harder than Nord steel.

"What's that?" Crixus asked.

"A fine piece of Dwarven craftsmanship," Bersi answered proudly. "Paid a high price off of some no good treasure-hunter who picked it up in Avanchnzel. It don't bother me none, because I'll have more than paid off for it once I find the right buyer. It'd be a shame to part with it, though. Them Dwarves disappeared thousands of years ago, and there be few folk brave enough to go into their ruins, or foolish enough."

"So I've heard," Crixus mused.

"Oh, but you don't want none of that, though," Bersi chuckled. "What _you_ want, friend, is this!" He picked up a steel mace from off the rack. It was a simple wooden shaft with a steel cap with jagged fins on four sides.

"Nice," Crixus smiled. "This should be sure to crack someone's head if they try to mess with me."

"Exactly," Bersi returned. "Now come over to the counter and we'll talk about an exchange."

"There's no need," Crixus added. "I'm in haste and have no time to haggle over price. Just give me what's fair and I'll be on my way."

"Excellent, excellent," Bersi sang as he walked over to the counter, the mace in his hands. "About sixty-five septims."

"Just a moment here," Crixus stated as he pulled out his own money bag and counted out the amount of sixty-five in gold septims. He then pushed the small pile towards Bersi and took from him the mace.

"Wow, what a tidy sum you've gotten for yourself there!" Crixus exclaimed.

"Oh, it's nothing," Bersi replied. "I deal fairly with my customers. At least somebody in Riften has to be that way."

"I daresay," Crixus continued. "You might just have enough here to pay back your debt to the Thieves Guild."

Bersi looked up at Crixus with uncertainty. This kind stranger had suddenly brought up something that he believed was only known to himself, his wife and that dog Brynjolf.

"And what do you mean by that, stranger?" he asked.

"You know what I mean," Crixus continued. "Brynjolf said he loaned you some money, and now it's time to pay him back."

"Oh, so you're working with the Thieves Guild, I take it?" scoffed Bersi. "Well you can tell Brynjolf to take a walk off of a cliff! Business ain't been good, and I ain't giving you this here money. This here's got the makings of a shake-down, plain and simple. Just threatening me to get back money for that old mace. Well, you ain't seeing one coin of it!"

"Is that so?" Crixus asked. Taking the mace, Crixus began walking leisurely towards the door, then suddenly sprinted towards the Dwemer urn and with one hand knocked it down onto the ground, where it made a deep clunk but remained intact.

"What in Mara's name are you doing?" Bersi exclaimed.

"You won't pay?" Crixus asked. "Is that what you said?" In one swift move, he swung the mace down and struck the urn.

"No, stop!" Bersi cried out. "What are you doing?"

"Enough money to buy this, I see," Crixus stated, sending the mace-head down again. "But not enough for your loans, eh?"

"You're destroying priceless merchandise!" Bersi protested. Crixus swung again, striking the urn. Bersi ran to stop him, but Crixus pushed him back with one hand as he swung again, sending a soul-crushing crack through the urn.

"Please, don't hurt my urn!" he begged. "It's priceless!"

"The Thieves Guild..." Crixus said as he swung the mace again. "Aren't to be...fucked with!"

"Look, look, I'll pay you, I'll pay you," Bersi continued. "Just don't destroy my...Please! I've got the message! Here, look, I'm paying you!"

Holding up the mace with one hand, Crixus looked back and saw the Nord stumbling over himself as he brought up a sack of coin as big as a cabbage head and gave it to Crixus. Crixus took the bag, then tossed the mace onto the ground as he walked out of the Pawned Prawn. He rarely resorted to such blatant acts of violence, preferring subterfuge and stealth instead, but it felt good to vent his rage against the Nords, especially on someone who was not six foot six and two hundred pounds.

* * *

Rather than go straight to the Bee and Barb, Crixus let what happened sink in a little. Taking to the rooftop of the Bee and Barb, he listened in to what conversations he could pick up from below. Most of their talk was about the war, musing on who would make the first move, whether Ulfric or Tullius. There were also rumors in the west that the King in Rags had escaped from Cidhna Mine, though few were apt to believe this. In the east, it was said that strange things were taking place on the island of Solstheim; people disappearing from Raven Rock at night, only to appear entranced at strange build sites across the island.

Eventually, the rumors were starting to come in; some were closer to the truth, others so far that Crixus had to bite his fist from laughing. Some said a kind stranger walked into the Pawned Prawn and deceived the proprietor with flattery before revealing himself as a Thieves Guild agent and demanding money at the point of a sword. Others spoke of an assault with a seven foot long war-hammer and the damage of an ancient Dwemer artifact. The most outrageous spoke of a figure leaping out of the darkness, summoning a dozen thieves to his side to ransack the Pawned Prawn, smashing everything in sight and leaving poor Bersi penniless in his ruined shop.

Crixus found them amusing, but useful. The best thing in his mind was that no one could place a face for the magical thief in their stories. That would have to change. Though he hadn't been among the rebels enough to get a good look at their gear, he assumed that they would wear masks when going into battle. Mostly so that the Empire would not know who they were, but it made sense in his mind. For his purpose, he would need a mask as well. False names would only get him so far once people started seeing his face, so he made a point to keep his face hidden once he returned from the Ragged Flagon.

There was now only one task left. Making his way down off the roof, he walked into the Bee and Barb, which was now packed with people on their lunch breaks or adventurers spending their well-earned or ill-gotten coin on beer and food. Crixus kept his eyes out for the grey-brown, bald-headed Argonian woman Kee-Rava. If he had done his job well, he might be able to get what he wanted out of her without any difficulties. If not, he had no qualms putting the heat on her.

Sitting in the shadows of the Bee and Barb, Crixus watched and waited until he saw the grey-brown-scaled Argonian walk upstairs towards the rooms. There would be no issue with him going up after her: those around would think that he was going to his room. Which was not entirely false, since his room _was_ on the second floor. Quietly he crept up behind her, drew out his knife and pressed it against her back.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered into the small hole on the left side of her head that was her left ear.

"What do you want from me, land-strider?" Kee-Rava asked.

"It's time to pay up," Crixus stated. "Your protection money is three months overdue and the Thieves Guild are done waiting."

"You're the one they're talking about?" Kee-Rava asked. "That phantom who broke into the Pawned Prawn and robbed Bersi Honey-Hand blind."

Crixus bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Yes, that's me."

"You really think you can fool an old woman with your fairy tales?" she laughed. "You people need to get off the skooma. We're not paying you a single drake, do you hear?"

"Fine then," Crixus replied. "I'll give your family your warmest regards."

"Family?" bluffed Kee-Rava. "What family? Talen-Jei is my only family, and he's not afraid of your kind either. He'll kick your tailless ass back down whatever hole you crawled out from!"

"What about the farm in Mournhold?" Crixus asked. Kee-Rava gasped and Crixus smiled, knowing he had scored a victory. "You think we're not serious about this? I smashed Bersi's prized Dwemer urn, and where were the guards to stop me? Nowhere! Now you better cough up the money or your family will be working for _us_ to repay your debt."

"No!" Kee-Rava begged. "Please, if you have an ounce of sympathy in you, don't hurt my family! They're all I have. I'll pay you the money, don't worry. I'll bring it up here right away."

"And make it quick," Crixus muttered.

Quietly he slunk aside, letting the Argonian woman go back downstairs. He waited and waited, apparently out of the way, while people went back and forth to and from their rooms. With each pair of footsteps going either up or down the stairs to the second floor, Crixus listened intently, trying to discern Kee-Rava over the rest of them. At last he heard the old woman's gravelly, guttural voice as she walked up the stairs, muttering to herself. Crixus hid against the doorway as she looked around, perplexed to see the landing at the top of the stairs empty. As she turned around to look behind her, Crixus walked up and took the bag from her hands without her noticing, walking on down the stairs before her perplexed eyes. She had been _certain_ that there was nobody up there when she first looked!

Crixus, meanwhile, now hoped that he could make it into the Ratways with all this gold without undue causing trouble.

* * *

**(AN: So much naughtiness in the first part of this chapter! Of course, since i realized that some of my previous "sex scenes" have the tendency to come off as a little goofy, i decided to just accept the goofiness and have the first job be one done quickly after Crixus is on the job.)**

**(On another subject, i always found it funny that when you walk inside the Pawned Prawn, Bersi will greet you with "Welcome to the Pawned Prawn", then when you speak to him, he will say again "Welcome to the Pawned Prawn." Lol. Also, speaking of what happened in this chapter, while i like the reviews, i was never enthralled by the Thieves Guild or had a desire to join them in my playthroughs. I only did it to explore the quest-line for the sake of the story. I just don't do the Thieves Guild.)**


	20. Sending a Clear Message

**(AN: I decided to split this chapter in two, since i didn't feel like writing another epic 5000+ word chapter update. Also this is the first time where i didn't get Vex's race mixed up. I still think she's...well, you've probably guessed by now.)**

* * *

**Sending a Clear Message**

"Well done, Crixus," Brynjolf greeted.

It was later that day and Crixus was back in the Ragged Flagon. Apparently news had reached the 'thugs' in the Ratways of who he was, and his entry into the place was not delayed. He found Brynjolf at a table with the two Imperials: the ugly one named Vex and the other named Delvin Mallory. Crixus pulled up a seat for himself and told Brynjolf what had happened.

"Well done," Brynjolf repeated. "Your actions will go far in rebuilding the general opinion of the Thieves Guild in Riften."

"That's good," Crixus smiled. "I'm glad to see that we've gotten the ball running."

"We is the right word, here," Delvin Mallory stated. Crixus was surprised at how much this man seemed so much like him. From his bald, grizzled look to the indifferent glance he gave everyone and everything around him, even the tone of his voice was close to his own. In fact, if one set the two of them together, it would have been hard to tell one from the other.

"For all the good it'll do us," he grumbled.

"You don't know that, Delvin," Vex interjected. "For all we know, this one might be our ticket out of this damned rut."

Whereas Delvin Mallory reminded Crixus of himself, Vex was the exact opposite. From her golden hair, squinting eyes, lips pursed endlessly in disgust to her thin face and elvish cheek-bones, Vex could have passed either for an Altmer or a really ugly Nord. When she spoke, however, that was where there was no doubt to her lineage. She was Nibenese, but spoke with the same kind of arrogance as the Altmer. An interesting contrast to say the least.

"I agree with Crixus," Brynjolf interjected. "This is a victory for all of us. The people of Riften have been complacent for far too long. Soon, they will respect the Thieves Guild as they should. And soon..." He turned to Crixus with a smile on his face. "...soon, you will be a full-time member of the Guild."

"Oh, I can't really dedicate myself to any full time profession," Crixus stated. "I'm a soldier first."

"Imperial Legion?" Delvin asked. "Going to free Skyrim from these half-wit Nords, are you?"

"That's the truth of it," Crixus smiled.

"You're wasting your time, friend," Brynjolf stated. "Empire, Stormcloaks, Dominion, they're all the same; in the end, they both run on one thing."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "And what's that?"

"Money," Brynjolf stated. "It doesn't matter if its Aldmeri crown, the Imperial septim or those long, ebony coins they use in Blacklight and Mournhold. Money is money, without which none of them can last very long."

"Or divine intervention," Delvin stated.

"Now you know that isn't true, Delvin," Vex chided the old Colovian. "Crixus here is too smart to fall for your ghost-stories."

"It ain't a ghost story, Vex," Delvin stated. "Ain't you ever wonder why we, of all peoples, the Thieves Guild, are suddenly nothing but brigands hiding in a skeever-hole?"

"It was just a little bit of bad luck, that's all," Vex continued. "Everyone's bound to hit a bad spot at some point. That's no reason to be blaming supernatural forces."

"Bad luck don't figure into it," Delvin replied. "Somebody's piss-drunk mad at us. Don't know who or what, but it's beyond any of us."

"Please," Vex rolled her eyes dismissively.

"What about you, hot-shot?" Delvin asked, turning to Crixus. "What do you think?"

"I barely even know what you two are talking about," Crixus replied diplomatically.

"Time was," Delvin began. "The Ragged Flagon was busier than the Imperial City. We had fences in and out of this place, gold flowing like rivers. You see those alcoves over there?" He pointed to the rounded alcoves on the edge of the giant cistern. "They used to be filled with booty, some of the rarest things one could find anywhere in Skyrim or outside of it. Then it all started going away. I tell you, it's a curse. Some god or daedra or wizard or what-the-fuck-ever is pissed off as us and has placed a curse on us."

"And I say that it's all bullshit," Vex stated. "We don't know if there's a curse, and fear-mongering doesn't help anything. It's just bad-luck. We'll get over it."

"We haven't gotten over it for months," Delvin added. "It ain't nothing natural." He then turned to Crixus. "So? What do you think it is? Curse or just blind luck?"

Crixus hesitated from answering. He recalled once when he was thirteen, about two years before the War started. He was, as usual, getting into trouble. Valerius was pulling double-duty with the city guard and his mother was locked away in her room: no one was around to look after him and his brother Venerius. While sneaking into the basement to try some of Father's Colovian brandy, he heard strange chanting sounds from the back-room of the cellar. Going there, he saw a sight that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He saw his step-mother, Sedris Ulver, clad in little more than golden jewelry, a broad necklace around her neck, bracelets and bangles upon her wrists and rings in her ears. She was kneeling in the center of a ring of candles, with something that looked human lying before her: its blood was splattered upon the front of her body.

"I don't believe in curses," Crixus replied uneasily. "I don't believe in anything, except money and the Empire."

"Well, if you want to stay in this Guild long," Delvin retorted. "You're going to have to believe in following orders and listening to advice. Curse or not, we don't need an idiot making things worse for ourselves."

"I'll keep that in mind," Crixus added.

"Are we done here yet, Brynjolf?" Vex asked. "You know I don't make social calls."

"What's the matter?" Brynjolf chuckled. "Can't stand the beer?"

"I can handle it just fine," Vex retorted. "But I don't have patience for small-talk."

"I can appreciate that," Brynjolf added, then turned to Crixus. "If you want me, I'll be waiting for you over by the bar. Mercer will be wanting to meet you after what's happened. You might just be joining us after all."

Crixus nodded as Brynjolf took up his cup and walked away. Delvin said nothing as he quietly drank, but Vex turned to Crixus with a condescending expression on her face.

"Look, let's just make two things perfectly clear," she said to him. "One, I'm the best infiltrator this rat-hole of a Guild has to offer, and if you're looking to replace me, you're dead wrong. Two, you follow my lead and do exactly as I say, no questions, no excuses. Okay, you got that? Are we clear?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded.

"Can I go now?" Vex groaned. "I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with the amount of bullshit I put up from you people."

"One thing, though," Crixus spoke up.

"What?" Vex grumbled.

Crixus removed from his pocket the reddish-pink gem he had found in Jarl Elisif's quarters. "I asked around, and Madesi, the Argonian jeweler, told me that someone down here might know what this is."

Vex took the gem from Crixus' hands and turned it over in her fingers a while before giving a noncommittal grunt. "Been a while since I've seen one of these."

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"This is a Stone of Barenziah," she began. "One of twenty-four identical pink sapphires that were fitted into a golden crown belonging to Barenziah, the mother of Hlaalu Helseth, former King of Morrowind. She has a long history, Queen Barenziah; having known both Tiber Septim and his descendant Uriel Septim VII. In fact, according to legends, she was one of the first ones to discover Jagar Tharn's treachery."

"What's it worth?"

"Like this? Nothing," Vex stated, placing the gem back on the table. "Mostly just as an oddment, a novelty people like to collect and look at. She has quite a history with the Thieves Guild, as well. We've tried to collect the other gems over the years, so they said, but nobody's been successful." She turned to Crixus. "Well, until _you_ came along."

Crixus noted the disapproval in her voice, but did not respond. She pushed the gem back to Crixus, then made her way over to the bar. Delvin Mallory, meanwhile, shook his head in disapproval.

"Ah, don't mind her," he said to Crixus. "She's bitter after fucking up an important job."

"Really?" Crixus asked.

"Ask Brynjolf about it, or Mercer Frey, if you're going in to see him," Delvin continued. "They'll tell you more about what happened. But until then, you and me got to do what we can to help the Guild."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Well why not?"

"I mean, you said the Guild is cursed, right?" Crixus asked. "What would be the point in fighting that?"

"Just that, then," Delvin stated. "We give the curse our middle finger and turn everything around down here. Put things back the way they were. That's where you come in. Me and Vex got plenty of work available that could guide us down the road to recovery. Once you're cleared with Mercer and Brynjolf, look us up if you're in the market for a little extra work. Heh. We'll come out of this curse smelling like roses, us."

"Hmph," Crixus mused, though he had other things in mind for what he wanted to smell like. "I guess I'll go see what Brynjolf wants."

"Before you do," Delvin spoke up. "Just two more things."

"And those are?"

"Look out for any rare or unusual trinkets when you're out and about," Delvin stated. "I'll make it worth the effort."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Oh, also," Delvin added. "If you ever happen to find yourself on that shite-hole Solstheim, look up Glover Mallory."

"Relative of yours?"

"That's right, yeah. My brother. He's also in good with us. Might be able to set you up with a few odd jobs around there, not that there's much to go on."

Crixus nodded, then walked over to Brynjolf. He finished his drink, then gestured with his head towards a dark tunnel to the side of the bar lit with only one torch about half-way in. There Crixus saw a door which was sealed shut. Brynjolf led Crixus up to the torch, where he picked up the torch and prepared to lead Crixus right down into another dark passageway leading thither.

"Where does that lead?" Crixus asked, his voice reverberating off the stone walls around them.

"Into the Warrens," Brynjolf stated. "Nobody goes down there, except the sickly or the mad. Follow me."

* * *

Crixus followed Brynjolf into the adjacent tunnel, which led to another wide cistern-like room with a rounded ceiling. There were several people milling about in this room, most of them clad in leather gear that made their movements as silent as the feet of monks in a Chapel of the Divines. In the middle of the room, under a dome of light where the sounds of people going back and forth could be heard, sat a middle-aged Breton man with graying black hair. As Brynjolf approached, the man rose up and turned to them.

"Mercer," Brynjolf greeted. "This is the one I was talking about. Crixus, our new recruit."

"Another Imperial?" asked Mercer in a haggard old voice, one that sounded as though it had done quite a bit of drinking in his time. "This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf." He turned to Crixus.

"So, Crixus," he began. "My name is Mercer Frey. I'm the guild-master of the Thieves Guild. That means I'm in charge here. And if you want to join us, there's one thing I want to make perfectly clear before we begin. If you play by the rules, you might have the chance to walk away from all of this filthy rich. But if you break the rules or steal from your fellow guilds men, you lose your share. No debates, no discussions. You do what we say, when we say and how we say it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal clear, master," Crixus replied.

Mercer harrumphed. "Let's see how you handle something really important. Roughing up a few towns-people is child's play, something we get the thugs in the Ratways to do. But this, this is the really important stuff. We'll send that Mercantile Freedom Society running for cover after this one."

"Wait a minute," Brynjolf interjected. "You're not seriously talking about...Goldenglow, are you? Even our little Vex couldn't get in."

"Well, why not?" Mercer asked. "You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, I say let him prove himself." He turned to Crixus. "Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one our largest clients."

"The Black-Briars?" Crixus asked.

"Keep asking questions out of turn," Mercer interjected. "And you and I are going to have a serious problem. Now shut up and listen. It's an important asset to one of our most important clients. But the owner suddenly got the bone-headed idea to take matters into his own hands, shutting us out of his dealings. We need you to teach him a lesson." He gestured to Brynjolf with his thumb. "Red here will tell you the details."

"Aren't you forgetting something, Mercer?" Brynjolf interjected.

"Hmm?" the older man turned around, then looked to Crixus. "I guess so. Since Red here assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild." He went on his way while Brynjolf turned back to Crixus.

"He's tough to get used to," Brynjolf commented. "Then again, who wouldn't be with what we've been going through lately?"

"I see," Crixus nodded. "So, what am I doing over at Goldenglow Estate?"

"I think it's best we start at the beginning," Brynjolf began. "You see, Goldenglow is a bee-farm on an island in Lake Honrich, run by some high elf named Aringoth. It used to be our sweetest deal: we...protected Aringoth's enterprise from competition, kept his workers in line and made sure his deliveries reached the Black-Briar meadery untouched, for a small fee, of course. Then one day the honey stopped. We sent Vex to see what was wrong and she found an army of mercenaries on the island: that's why she's so bitter."

"I noticed," Crixus added.

"Maven Black-Briar is upset that her business has been halted," Brynjolf continued. "And it's our job to keep it flowing again. Break into his compound, torch three of his bee-hives and clear out Aringoth's safe. Make sure you don't burn down too many, though. Maven's paying us to keep the honey farm intact, since it will be returning to work for her afterwards."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "And what about the army of mercenaries?"

"Talk to Vex," Brynjolf stated. "She's our best infiltrator. She might be able to give you some help in getting through."

* * *

**(AN: Kind of just filler, but it was fun to write dialogue for these characters. Delvin does strike me as someone like Crixus quite a bit, based mostly on his appearance and how i envisioned Crixus initially. The Stone of Barenziah reveal was kind of inspired by Barbosa's reveal of the Aztec gold from _Pirates of the Caribbean I_, back when the _Pirates_ movies were actually good. Also, since the game has a limited number of voice actors, some of the characters have the same voices [ie. Mercer and Belethor have the same voice actors, as well as several other characters]. For the sake of this story, i had the unoriginal Ron Perlman in mind for Mercer Frey, since typically he sounds just like a discount Belethor in the game's audio files.)**

**(Next chapter will have some interesting things happen, but i feel like i might have to take a break to get my timeline rewritten to fit everything in. Oh well, i have about five hypothetical months before the REALLY hard part comes in where i have to tie this story into everything that happened in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ while still completing everything that needs to be done in _this_ story.)**


	21. Messages and Signs

**(AN: Only one major change here, and that's moving the safe to Aringoth's room rather than leaving it in the basement.)**

* * *

**Messages and Signs**

The fourth day of Rain's Hand was, surprisingly clear for this time of year, when the rains of spring began to burst upon Skyrim. In the Rift, the golden leaves of the aspens were turning vibrant green, filling the otherwise dead city of Riften with a refreshing change of color in its otherwise austere golden background. The fishermen were busy casting their nets into the crystal clear blue waters of Lake Honrich or sailing their boats away from the lake-town of Riften to where the bigger fish lurked in the deeper waters. One boat, however, was going to go very far out on the lake today, with a very peculiar customer.

That customer was Servius Crixus. After an early breakfast in the Bee and Barb - under a different name and wearing a mask so as to keep his identity secret - he heard that a delegation had made its way to Mistveil Keep, the stone keep at the southern end of town. Getting inside was not an issue, nor was it an objective. Crixus' main goal was getting into the Goldenglow Estate. He spent the morning on the roof of Mistveil Keep, cleverly out of sight as he overlooked the map Vex gave him, which marked the location of a tunnel by which he could gain access into the estate grounds. Beneath his cloak was the new leather Thieves Guild gear he had received several days ago as payment for the jobs he had completed for the Guild.

That was a while and ago now, and he had done a few more jobs in Riften over the six days hence. A few houses had been broken into and goods looted. The Thieves Guild coffers were steadily growing, but the Goldenglow Estate hung still over Crixus' head in that time. He eventually decided that going at it the very next day after getting the assignment would be fool-hardy: he needed a well-laid plan before attempting to break their defenses. Vex and Delvin agreed and he was permitted his six days to plan and prepare. He had everything he needed, most of which had been stowed away in the little raft he was about to take out to the island.

For now, however, he was lying on the roof, just within earshot of the keep's balcony. Directly below him were several people of great importance. He picked out at least three voices: one belonged to an old Nord who seemed like a very typical Nord - drunk, slovenly and another Talos-thumping idiot like Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, the other to an Imperial woman with a crisp Colovian accent. The third belonged to a middle-aged woman whom both of them addressed as Jarl. This must be Laila the Law-giver.

"You simply must be reasonable!" the Imperial woman stated, sounding a bit incensed.

"Reasonable?" the old Nord asked. "Shor's balls, what's there to be reasonable about?"

"Why, Master Snow-Shod, such language!" exclaimed the Imperial woman.

"What is your nephew going to do about it?" the old Nord continued. "This is Skyrim, b*tch! And this here hold belongs to its sons, not to your Empire!"

"Vulwulf," the Jarl interjected. "I will not abide that kind of language. We're here to negotiate your wedding, not bring the Civil War to my doorstep."

"Just whose side are you on, Jarl Laila?" the one called Vulwulf asked.

"I'm not on anybody's side," the Jarl replied diplomatically. "But I see what Ulfric really wants: he seeks the throne of the High King for himself."

"And why shouldn't he have it?" asked Vulwulf. "He's a true son of Skyrim, not some cowardly little Cyrodilian who will bend their knees to any elf who asks for mastery at the edge of a sword!"

"Now, see here!" the Imperial woman interjected.

"Surely you can see the benefit in such a union, Vulwulf," Jarl Laila spoke up. "The Emperor's cousin marrying one of Skyrim's most eligible bachelors, and the son of a renowned and respected land-owner."

"Don't flatter me, Jarl," Vulwulf continued. "I may be old, but I'm not blind yet. I can see what this will entail."

"Oh, please," the old Imperial woman scoffed. "Pray, enlighten me, farmer." She said the words with no hidden disgust.

"Where will this wedding be held, hmm?" he asked. "Will it be held in the traditional sense? Outside in the cool mountain air, just like when Ysgramor saw the marriage of his right and left hand Companions after their journey to this land?"

"Certainly not!" the Imperial woman retorted, once again sounding highly offended. "My poor Vittoria will not suffer the indecency of being dragged into the mountains like a victim of some Nord _kidnapping!_ No, the wedding will be held in Solitude: at least _that's_ more civilized."

"Of course," Vulwulf stated. "Solitude, the seat of Imperial rule in Skyrim. I suppose this isn't a trap to have my son murdered, or me, a staunch supporter of the _true_ High King of Skyrim!"

"You old fool," the woman replied. "Skyrim belongs to the Empire!"

The rest was unheard by Crixus as he tried to examine what he had heard. From what he knew, Emperor Titus Mede II had taken a wife who had died during the Great War: she belonged to the Vicci family, wealthy socialites living in the Imperial City. Vittoria Vicci was the Emperor's cousin and, currently, the heir apparent to the Empire if the Emperor died with no heir. Titus had no heir, having lost his wife during the War and becoming reclusive in the later years. He hadn't heard much of this Vulwulf Snow-Shod, but he appeared to be just another Nord like the rest of them. Why the Emperor's cousin was marrying the filth swine's brood of a Nord was beyond him. Perhaps he would ask General Tullius about it upon his return to Solitude.

But he would not be going back to Solitude, not yet at least.

* * *

Though Crixus did not think of himself as being fool-hardy, this assault on the Goldenglow Estate could be considered by some to be such. His hired hand, the fisherman whose boat he had hired to row him out across the lake to the island, certainly said as much. But Crixus was more than just a thief or a hired thug: during his time in Mournhold, he read many books. Some were about the history of man in Tamriel, including the many Nord traditions regarding Ysgramor and the Five Hundred, as well as the AKaviri and Wulfharth the Undying, the only Nordic hero other than Talos whom Crixus hated as much. But he also read books on strategy, hoping to expand his knowledge if nothing else.

To that end, he chose to attack in broad daylight, when the watchmen would be awake and alert. Pulling off a successful raid of the estate under the light of day would prove the resourcefulness and audacity of the Thieves Guild. No one would feel safe from them, whether by day or by night. Many would have called it fool-hardy and told him to wait for dusk. But not Servius Crixus: he knew what had to be done. Despite what the other members of the Thieves Guild would say about his fool-hardiness, risking such an important mission, he knew that the payoff would be more than worth it.

Besides, it would make for himself a worthy challenge.

"We're here, sir," the old fisherman said to Crixus, who sat in the boat next to him, a ratty old hood and cloak thrown over his head and gear.

Crixus nodded silently. Let those on the island think him another fisherman in this boat out looking for a catch away from the main congregation of fishing boats. Casting an eye over his shoulder, Crixus saw the island with a wooden picket fence on its eastern side and a large wooden house on the western side of the island. Looking farther back, he saw the bee-hives sitting like fat, golden pots upon large wooden stools. They were at least three score yards away, but there were still guards about. He would have to make three perfect shots with lit arrows in broad daylight in order for this plan to go off without a hitch.

"Remember," Crixus said to the fisherman. "Once I've fired off my third arrow, you keep on sailing around the island as if nothing happened. Drop me off over at that shelf part on the northwestern side of the main island. Don't go back or wait for me. Do you understand?"

"Whatever you say, sir," the fisherman replied. "Your money."

With no time to show off, Crixus lit the oiled rag tied to the first arrow, fitted it into the string, then swiftly turned around, bent the bow back and tried to focus hard on the side of the bee-hive before letting loose an arrow. Quickly he hid his bow and hunched his back, trying to look inconspicuous. A quick look over his shoulder gave him the knowledge that his window of opportunity was swiftly closing. Pulling up his bow again, he fitted another arrow, then lit the oiled rag. Turning around, he sent the arrow flying, striking another steadily departing bee-hive. But time was running out and he swiftly plucked another arrow and lit the oiled rag around the arrow head. Turning around, he saw that one of the sentries in one of the towers nearby was looking directly at him. Thinking fast, he turned the bow towards him and sent his arrow into the sentry's throat.

"Fuck!" Crixus exclaimed. "Stop, stop right now!"

"I can't stop!" the fisherman replied. "What if they see us?"

"Then they see us, okay?" Crixus asked. "I need one more shot! Stop, dammit!"

Crixus had brought extra arrows, oil and rags to tie around the arrow-head for the lighted shots. Unfortunately, hoping on swiftness, he had not prepared a fourth arrow in the event that something happened. But he could overcome that. It did not take very long to prepare one. He stuffed the rag into the flask of oil while he rubbed the oil off his hands and washed them in the lake. Very carefully he dragged the wet rag out and tied it around the head of the arrow, once again drying the hand that would hold the shaft of the bow, since that would be closest to the flame.

"Hurry!" bemoaned the fisherman. "They'll see us for sure!"

"Just stay calm," Crixus replied as he took out his flint and tinder.

After six strikes, Crixus finally got a spark and ignited the soaked rag on the end of the arrow. Quickly he turned around, took aim and let his fourth arrow strike one of the farthest bee-hives. The arrow struck, and just in time as the boat flowed out of reach of any other hive.

The boat now came to the northwestern side of the island. Here the fisherman pulled his boat up to the shore as close as he could. The boat rocked unsteadily as Crixus got to his feet and took hold of the warm rocky shelf. According to his map, the sewer entrance should be somewhere around here. The boatman was already paid and he rowed on towards the fishing grounds. Meanwhile, Crixus pulled himself on top of the rocky shelf and slid down the other side, where he saw the wooden door in the ground. So far, though one hiccup had been encountered, the plan was going smoothly.

* * *

Getting inside was child's play to Crixus. As a prefect, living in Mournhold - one of the last major cities in Morrowind that had survived the Red Year - he had to learn to deal with some of his political opponents. The growing unrest between the two majorities of Mournhold, the ruling Argonians and the servile Dunmer, meant that more tongues were held and secrets were kept. He would leave Pectis to run the daily duties of his prefecture while he himself would don a disguise and break into the houses of suspected criminals, learning what was going on in the city. It was never in support of either the Dunmer or the Argonians: he only supported peace in Mournhold, and that was what he did.

Therefore, he was not unfamiliar with breaking into highly guarded compounds. Breaking into Goldenglow Estate would be nothing. It was true that he had to crawl through about thirty feet of tunnel built under the lake, tracking mud on his arms and knees, water dripping down on him from above and skeever dung every five feet; but Crixus had been through worse than this. He would definitely be in for a bath afterwards, but this would be worth it. He _knew_ it would be worth it.

The tunnel led into a cellar at the bottom of the facility. There were only two guards present, barely enough to pass muster. Crixus crept up behind the first one, slit his throat with his knife, then threw it into the chest of the other one. After dragging their bodies behind some large barrels, Crixus continued on up the stairs and into the main estate penthouse. He had not gone up three or more stairs out of the basement when he heard above him the sound of people talking, mostly just idle conversation: the mercenaries he had heard tell about.

"What are we still doing here nohow?" one asked. Clearly a Nord.

"You know why we're here," another responded, his voice refined and cultured, but too deep for a Colovian or Nibenay. Redguard perhaps?

"T'ain't we scared them robbers away already?" asked the Nord.

"These aren't some ordinary band of robbers, no indeed," the Redguard replied. "These are the Thieves Guild!"

"So what? That nothing! Word around here is them Thieves Guild is all washed up."

"You fool!" laughed the Redguard. "Do you think Skyrim is the world? Rumor has it that another group has appeared in Sentinel, calling themselves 'the Hammerfell Thieves Guild.' They've caused the Crowns and the Forebears quite a bit of grief, as well as the Dominion!"

"Bah! Damn elves," grumbled the Nord. "Always ruining everything for everybody."

Crixus rolled his eyes, but did not move. He guessed rightly that these two were watching the top of the stairs and would notice him if he went up into the main compound. He would have to think fast in order to outsmart these two. Drawing out a dagger, he threw it up the stairs, hoping that it would pass over the top of the stairs and into their view. He heard it clang to the floor, then quickly hid on one side as the two went to examine the projectile. As he predicted, the large Nord came lumbering down the stairs. Catching a nearby broom in his hands, Crixus thrust the handle in the way, sending the Nord mercenary face first onto the cold stone floor. His comrade heard the noise above and warily came down to investigate. But Crixus had more than one dagger on hand and, stepping out from the side of the cellar, he thrust his knife into the Redguard's throat, one hand over his mouth to keep him silent as he laid him down onto the ground. Turning quickly to the Nord, he thrust his dagger into the Nord's back, piercing his lungs without the Nord making much more than a gasp.

Quietly he stowed up the stairs and made his way down a hallway to the left, as he heard voices from the right. It would not be long before the absence of those two was noted, but what were two thugs anyway, especially one of them a Nord? He would have to be extra careful now in order to reach the upper level.

The left-hand hallway made another left, placing Crixus within reach of his quarry. To his left, however, a dining room opened up to several mercenaries were seated about, eating and drinking and laughing it up. Apparently they were so confident about the security of Goldenglow Estate that they did not expect attacks to come this far. Whether they had not heard of the sudden assault on the bee-hives or, as Crixus assumed, being Nords they were too drunk to care, Crixus was unsure. One quick look in and he saw them all seated around a table, with one looking towards the doorway. He slunk back and cursed beneath his breath. No way forward, but there was a stairwell just beyond which he was certain led to where Aringoth kept his safe. Then a long shadow, cast by the roaring fire roasting the food for the mercenaries beyond, appeared before the door. Chancing a glance, Crixus saw a large Nord telling a story about how he had wrestled a bear once with his bare hands. Crixus rolled his eyes, then carefully crept along before the doorway, hidden behind the giant Nord.

At last he gained the flight of stairs that would take him to the top floor. Up the stairs he went, eager on his conquest ahead. He had come thus far, through mud and shit and mercenaries, so far without anyone being any wiser to his presence. He was nearing the top of the stairs and found the door was hanging open. Pressing his luck again, Crixus pushed the door open. It gave a slight creak, but no greater sound. He crept into a wide bedroom with a storage closet at the far side.

"Going somewhere, are you?" a haughty elvish voice asked.

Crixus turned around, but too late. He was caught. Standing across from him was an old Altmer dressed in the rich clothes of his kind: that is to say a simple woven robe, with sleeves embroidered with gold and a collar of gold as well. His sleeves were very long and they covered his hands. His face was not much different than most high elves: yellow skin, squint yellow eyes, an elongated high domed head, long white hair and a white chin-beard with high cheekbones and eyes so sunken in they made his face look like a skull. It was no wonder that Nords did not trust them.

"Aringoth, I presume?" Crixus asked.

"You must be cleverer than the usual cut the Thieves Guild employ," sneered the elf. "Either that, or those damn Nords I hired are worthless. Either way, I knew Maven and Mercer wouldn't let me get away with this. But I'm afraid your efforts will be futile."

"All I want is the key to your safe," Crixus stated.

Aringoth laughed a haughty, mocking chortle. "And you thought I would simply give it to you at the asking? You fool! I'm damned if I help you Thieves Guild again. Helping you would be tantamount to severing my own hand."

"You know," Crixus reminded the elf. "I could always kill you and take the key off your body."

Aringoth laughed again. "You're not going to kill me, little man. You're not the Dark Brotherhood, it's not in your way to kill your customers, or your victims. There's nothing you can do that will frighten me or make me b..."

But just then, Crixus punched the elf in the face, sending him crumbling down onto the floor. While the Altmer were keen magicians and spell-crafters, they were thin-bodied and frail, especially compared to a Colovian who grew up in the Imperial Legion.

It did not take Crixus long to find the key, which he did and then went to the storage room, where he figured the safe would be kept. True enough, he found it in a corner of the room. They key fit perfectly and he opened the heavy iron door and peered inside. There wasn't much, just a bag of septims, something heavy wrapped in a cloth, and a note. He cleaned it all out, examining the cloth-bound thing first. It was a paper-weight made out of solid gold, fashioned in the likeness of a very large bee.

_Hmm_, he thought to himself. _I wonder if Delvin will like this_.

The coin purse equaled up to one hundred golden drakes, which Crixus hoped he could keep after this task. He stowed the golden bee back in its bag and placed it and the money bag upon his belt. Lastly he opened the letter. The script was spidery and hastily written, but the words were legible enough. There was no signature but a strange symbol was drawn at the top of the page: a circle with a cross-like shape imbedded into it from the top. Here is what was written in the letter.

_This document acknowledges the sale of Goldenglow Estate and all property, assets and materials contained within. Payment of the property has been made in full by Gajul-Lei as an agent on behalf of the buyer. All dealings with the Thieves Guild in Riften are to cease immediately. To deter any possible retribution for this act, you are to take immediate steps to protect our assets in any way you see fit. I think you'll find that the Thieves Guild is far more bark than bite and will likely avoid Goldenglow Estate rather than thin their already dwindling numbers._

_Good luck and may this be the start of a long and lucrative partnership._

Suddenly, from down below, Crixus heard a shout and footsteps charging up the stairs. They had found the two bodies and were coming for him. Without another thought he ran towards the window and threw himself out of it, clinging onto the sill just at the last minute before he fell to the bottom. As he heard voices above and through the window, he let go and fell to the ground. Now was his chance to make a break for it. He was carrying too much gold to consider swimming and the bill of sale was not enchanted like his letters. Instead, he turned his eyes south-eastward, towards the main part of the compound. More and more mercenaries were charging towards the manor house, towards him.

He laughed and charged back at them. Some drew their weapons and tried to take him down, but Crixus was nimble on his heels and ducked or slid under their swinging swords or axes as he leaped across a rope bridge to the second island, where the three bee-hives were burning. Behind he heard their pursuit, then, doing the unthinkable, he kicked the burning bee-hive nearest him down onto the ground, sending a hundred angry bees swarming out of their nests towards the mercenaries as they charged after Crixus.

Coming at last to the third island, Crixus found that this one had a bridge leading back onto the mainland, which he took and ran eastward as fast as his legs could take him.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Crixus finally arrived at Riften. Before leaving on his mission, he had been told of a secret way back into the main cistern that would bypass the main drag of the Ratways. This therefore brought Crixus into the small Riften cemetery south of the Temple of Mara. There was a stone shrine built in the Cyrodilic style of the Third Era, masoned stone rather than wooden staves, with a single stone sarcophagus inside the shrine. Upon the sarcophagus was a symbol like a diamond with a circle inside it. Crixus had been instructed to press the circle of the symbol when he saw it: he pressed it and stepped back as the sarcophagus slid back into the wall, revealing a short staircase made of stone which led to a vertical tunnel with a wooden ladder going even farther down.

Going down the ladder was child's play, and once at the bottom, Crixus found himself once again in the middle of the Thieves Guild's cistern beneath the city. He saw Mercer Frey and Delvin Mallory having a discussion about some old Nordic coins as he approached them.

"Not bad," Mercer replied.

"How do you know about it already?" Crixus asked.

Mercer chuckled. "We're the Thieves Guild. Nobody in our employ wipes their ass without us knowing about it. You can keep whatever you found in Aringoth's safe as payment."

"I also found this," Crixus stated, bringing forth the golden bee and the bill of sale. Delvin greedily snatched the bee from Crixus' hands while Mercer looked over the bill with a deep and severe scrutiny.

"Good work, Crixus," Delvin congratulated. "I'll ring you up a tidy sum for this, just follow me."

"Not yet, Delvin," Mercer interjected, looking up from the bill to Crixus. "Maven Black-Briar wants to speak with you, Crixus. She's in the Bee and Barb, second story landing. And she's not in a good mood, so don't keep her waiting."

"I'll have that money for you when you get back, eh?" Delvin asked.

Crixus nodded as he went back the way he had come, back up into the cemetery.

* * *

When Crixus returned to the main level of the city, he quickly made his way through the busy streets of the market place. Arriving at the Bee and Barb, he suddenly realized just how filthy he was after crawling around in the tunnels under Goldenglow Estate. There was no time to clean off, not when Maven Black-Briar was waiting for him and he did not want to learn the hard way if she really was as powerful as everyone said.

Into the Bee and Barb he went then up the stairs to the second story landing. While he was looking around, a woman's voice cleared her throat. Turning around, Crixus saw a middle-aged Nord woman with dark hair and piercing dark eyes. She was clad in a rich reddish-brown jacket with a golden chain about her neck. She did not rise or gesture for Crixus when she saw him, but her eyes beckoned him with deadly certainty. Crixus took his seat on a chair she had brought up across from her.

"You certainly took your time," she greeted curtly. "I suppose cleaning blood off your knives was your first priority..." She scoffed. "Though you obviously don't care enough to clean for a lady of importance."

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Now what do you want from me?"

"You'll not earn my favor that way," Maven replied. "I believe in results. Simply agreeing with me won't get you anywhere."

"I see," Crixus replied.

The Nord woman relaxed her posture, steepling her fingers together as she examined the bald Colovian before her. Crixus got the distinct impression that he was being eyed with quiet indifference, as though he was only another piece on a great _geh_ board. But there was also a wizened discernment, something he did not believe Nords possessed.

"Do you have a family, thief?" she asked.

"No," Crixus lied, shaking his head. Valerius was dead, Claudia was long since dead, Sedris was killed during the War, and he heard nothing of Venerius after they last parted. For all he knew, he was already dead, his body long since rotted away in some ditch in Cyrodiil.

"Any children?" she added. Crixus shook his head and she smirked. "I have three, and a business to run, as well as this hold. Jarl Laila the Law-giver can't do much of anything without my say. I've also served as the protector of _your_ Thieves Guild."

"I'm just barely starting," Crixus began.

"And you've already made a name for yourself," Maven replied. "But, since I have been so kind as to keep you safe from the rabble of Riften, I feel that you owe me the same."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "And what's that?"

"I need you to take out my biggest competitor, Honningbrew Meadery," she replied. "They've expanded to Whiterun, where they think they can escape me. But, since I've heard tell of what you've done to get the reputation of the Thieves Guild in Riften back up to scratch, this should be a walk in the park for you, shouldn't it?"

"Perhaps," Crixus stated.

"Also," Maven added. "While you're there, I want you to find out just how they managed to get that place up and running so quickly. Not a day goes by that I don't regret taking them out when I had the chance. In only a few short years, they've taken that sheep's piss to market and my profits with it! I can't imagine where they got the money for this bold venture. So find out, is that understood.

"Yes," Crixus replied, speaking almost as if in a trance. "But...but what about the Empire?"

Maven chuckled. "What about it?"

"They've offered you terms if you decide to aid them against the Stormcloaks," Crixus continued in the same droning voice.

Maven shook her head. "I see that the Empire is good for business, like any intelligent person should. But titles and empires matter little to me: my goal is money and the security of my family tree. If I believed in the Divines, I would thank them that at least my eldest is doing things right." She shook her head. "But that is immaterial. You need to get your ass down to Whiterun immediately. Find Mallus Maccius in The Bannered Mare, it's the inn in Whiterun. He'll tell you what you have to do. Now get on with it: I'm not getting any younger."

Crixus left almost as soon as she had finished speaking. _So that was Maven Black-Briar_, he thought to himself. She did not seem much different physically than any other Nord, aside from her dark hair and her obvious cleverness over most of them. But he did sense from her tone, her demeanor and the way she carried herself that she was, at the very least, well connected and resourceful. There wasn't anyone else he had met in this god-forsaken country who could have fit the rumors about Maven Black-Briar more than the person herself.

He made his way back down the stairs and was going towards the bar when he heard someone describing him to a tee. Turning around, he saw a weather-beaten courier standing by a table, talking to a large Nord woman with strawberry blond hair who was seated with the young Nibenese man he had met earlier that week.

"Bald-headed," the courier continued. "Kind of a scowl on his face. Shorter than most people around here, but taller than an average Imperial. Blue eyes, carries around a bow on his back."

"You mean that man?" the woman asked in a thick Nordic accent as she pointed to Crixus.

The courier turned about and his eyes swelled as he saw Crixus approaching the table.

"There you are!" he greeted. "I've been looking for you. I've got something I'm supposed to deliver. Your hands only."

"Really?" Crixus asked. He tried to think of who could have sent him a letter, or at least anyone who could have known about him being here who would have sent a letter.

"Let's see," the courier mused as he rummaged through his messenger bag. "Oh, here it is! A letter, though I don't remember who from."

"You don't?" Crixus asked.

"They just described you and gave me the note," the courier replied. "It was dark and I could barely make out their voice. Well, that looks like that's it. Got to go now, important deliveries to make, you know."

The courier departed and so did Crixus, back to the bar to buy a drink for himself. He turned the letter over in his hands as well as in his mind as he sat by the bar. Who could have contacted him? General Tullius knew he was here; he had in fact sent him to Riften to recruit Maven Black-Briar, to no avail. But would he go through the trouble of secrecy? Perhaps, considering that this was a rebel hold.

As his bottle of Surilie Brother's wine was brought up, Crixus examined the note again. It was rather light and did not feel weighted down with heavy ink or a signed seal. That ruled out Idgrod Ravencrone the Younger, daughter of the Jarl of Hjaalmarch. Perhaps it was that annoying housecarl Jordis back in Solitude, or it might even have been Elisif. Idly he took a sip from the bottle as he pried open the note. It was bare except for a single mark: a hand print in black, charcoal-like ink. Beneath the hand print were two words written in black ink, two words the script of which was completely alien to Crixus. Only two words, but they filled Crixus with uncertainty and suspicion. Just two words.

_We know_.

* * *

**(AN: Yes, i ended the story on that ominous note, tying in to the chapter title in more than one way.)**

**(Based on their mean age, I don't think that Hemming is the father of Sibbi and Ingun. I've said that before in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, and since this story takes place in that "universe", it holds true in this story. That was one of the reasons for having some of the small-talk between Crixus and Maven. Also to affirm that, despite what Crixus says, he knows the truth inside. Maven is actually rather perceptive, since she guessed with the question "Do you have a family/children?" that he was roughly around the same age as she was.)**


	22. The Choice

**(AN: In the end, it is not for the goofy depictions of sexual intercourse nor for the "so over-the-top that even Kevin Smith would say 'You gotta cut down on the fucking swearing, dude'" coarse language that i write M-rated stories on here, but for the heavier material that could not fly in a T-rated fic. I haven't really done much blood, but that will change soon, and there are definitely other things that are more risque [like boundary-crossing seduction and child abuse] that appear in _Skyrim_ that couldn't be depicted, imo, in a T-rated fic. Some of that is coming here, so don't say i didn't warn you)**

* * *

**The Choice**

Crixus did not sleep that night. The letter's words had unnerved him and he was more than smart enough to be wary. He ate and drank at the Bee and Barb, but did not seek out any escorting company. A good lay usually wearied him out, and he needed his wits about him this night more than ever. He kept himself active by performing duties for the Thieves Guild, breaking into houses to steal or plant things, rewrite ledgers and search for unusual items of valuable nature. Both Delvin and Vex were also kept up late that night by reason of his efforts, which was advantageous for them because many scores were settled and debts paid, but also annoying since they were eager to sleep. Around three in the morning, Delvin paid Crixus two hundred gold septims for the golden bee paper-weight he had found at Goldenglow Estate and told him plainly to bugger off.

Before dawn, Crixus ran to the stables outside the city, his throat dry and his eyes blood-shot from taking a hit from a Dunmer in the Ratways with a skooma pipe. He kept running his hands over his face, which felt bristly like a pine tree, while going over and over in his mind what he had to do: get to Whiterun. Almost like a mantra he repeated it over and over and over again in his mind. _'Get to Whiterun! Get to Whiterun! Get to Whiterun!'_ But was it his mind, pushing against sleep since night fell, that reminded him of his goal even while he was inhaling to keep it fresh in memory come whatever may, or was it the side effects of the drug? He had only tried skooma once before recreationally, when his secretary Pectis had confiscated some from a family living in Mournhold.

But it didn't matter to Crixus. He had what he wanted, a quick shot of adrenaline to fight back sleep. He felt that he could do anything now: a fast gallop to Whiterun would be nothing. He woke the stable boy, a High Yokudan Redguard named Shadr, and purchased a horse. As he felt now, no Thalmor in all of Tamriel could catch him on a horse. After paying the young man a few 'drakes' and spending a good five minutes trying to get on the horse, he was finally helped up by Shadr and took off north, following the main road.

Despite what he had initially believed, this road was much larger and more open than he had surmised. Though there were dense forests to his left and to his right, the road was wide enough for a cart to drive and there was enough space on either side of the road for a company to walk with ten men abreast. But that was no concern of Crixus': he had to get to Whiterun!

But his horse was moving too slowly. He kicked the horse's flanks over and over and held on for dear life as the horse suddenly bolted. Crixus could scarce keep himself on the horse as he passed like a wind down the hill and then began snaking his way around the southern end of the plateau upon which the Rift hold was situated. Around him the day seemed to be moving slowly, but it was in fact that he was moving faster than the world around him. By noon he had nearly crossed the plateau's bottom and was making his way north-west, towards the road leading into the wooden area south of Valtheim Towers, the gateway to Whiterun.

Suddenly his horse collapsed, having been beaten for eight hours by a skooma-crazed Colovian. Crixus shrugged off the blow as though he had been slapped by a baby and kept on going, walking now instead of galloping. The effects of the drug were still strong and he felt that, if he pushed himself enough, he could walk to Whiterun from where the horse collapsed. By rod or by crook, he was determined to get to Whiterun!

Slowly, however, as the hours waned and the sun began floating down into the western sky, perched up on the northern edge of the tall, snow-capped mountain known by the locals as High Hrothgar or the Throat of the World, Crixus began to grow weary. The lack of sleep was closing his eyes, even though the sun was staring him down in the face: that made it even worse. The bright light begged him to sleep, urging his eyes to shut themselves against its glow. His limbs were growing heavy, his eyelids heavier and his head was pounding profusely. He kicked at a pebble on the side of the road out of frustration: how could he have failed when he was this close? There wasn't more than just a short walk up this hill on which he was walking and then he would have the top. But his anger quickly subsided into sorrow as he thought of other things in which he had failed like this: he had played the gentleman to Elisif only for a chance to pleasure himself on her, he had let Baucus and Eisa's comrades die, as well as all those at the Battle of the Red...

His head, heavy under the aftershock of his binge, lolled forward. Deprived of sleep for so long, his limbs finally collapsed and he fell face first onto the ground. His world was enveloped by darkness and he knew no more. Whiterun was so close and yet so far away.

* * *

When Crixus finally opened his eyes, he saw a wooden roof above his head: it was old and filthy and he could smell the stench of mold and rot thick in the air, choking him as he lifted his head. Looking around, he saw that he was inside a room made out of wooden planks, old wooden planks that let in a chill air from the outside, gently howling through the cracks. There was little light about him, only enough to see what was directly ahead. He saw what looked like a high shelf pushed up against the wall of the room. On the top shelf, reclining with back against the wall, he saw a small figure clad all in black with a red scarf obscuring most of the lower face. The upper face was hidden by a black hood, showing only two pale blue eyes that stared down at him.

"Sleep well?" a muffled voice, markedly feminine, asked. "You know, lesser men have died from skooma binges like you've had."

"Where am I?" Crixus groaned, his head still pounding from the previous day. Or had more than one day passed since then?

"Does it matter?" the masked woman replied curtly. "You're warm, dry and still very much alive: more than can be said about old Grelod, hmm?"

"You know about it?" Crixus replied.

"Half of Skyrim knows," the woman scoffed. "Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around."

"She was abusing those children," Crixus defended. "Anyone else _should_ have done exactly that."

"You misunderstand me," she cut in. "I'm not criticizing you. It was a good kill: the b*tch had it coming, and you saved a bunch of urchins to boot. You should be very proud of yourself."

"I take it you aren't?" Crixus asked.

"Very perceptive of you," the woman returned. "You see, the one who you found in Windhelm, Aventus Aretino, he was trying to contact me and my associates: the Dark Brotherhood."

_So they _are _real, _Crixus thought to himself.

"Yes, we _are_ real," the woman stated. Crixus was shocked: how did she know what he was thinking? She couldn't be a Nord, they were too dense to be capable of such things. Either an Imperial or a Breton, he supposed, were capable of such cunning.

"We are very real," she continued. "And you owe us a life. Grelod was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract: one that _you_ stole from us when you killed her. So, you see, we have a problem...as long as someone in this room is still alive."

"So you're gonna kill me?" Crixus asked, looking himself over, then looking back up at the woman and scoffing. "Well, you've done a shitty job, I must say. You didn't even disarm me."

"I _could_ kill you," she continued. "But considering how well you handled Grelod, I have...something else to offer you."

"What's that?"

"Your freedom."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "And how do I get that?"

"Turn around," she stated.

"Why?" Crixus asked again. "So you can run a knife through my back?"

"Rather talkative, aren't you?" she retorted, sounding frustrated. "Just turn around already!"

Turning, Crixus saw three people up against the farthest wall of the room, hanging from the ceiling by chains on their wrists.. A lone torch on the side wall gave light to their forms. Each of them had a black shroud about their heads, obscuring their identities, but Crixus could still make out a little of what they were from their bodies. One was large and clad in hide armor, exposing much of his sun-kissed pale chest: possibly a Nord mercenary, a sellsword? The middle one was a woman, but her dress showed no skin tone at all. The last one was clad in rich robes and, from the furry grey tail twitching between his legs, Crixus guessed that he was a Khajiit.

"Your freedom lies in the deaths of one of the three victims you see before you," the woman said from behind. "There's a Dark Brotherhood contract on one of them...but which one? Since you owe the Dark Brotherhood a kill, I've decided to let you have the honor. Make your choice and then make your kill. I'll watch and admire."

"Really?" Crixus asked, pushing himself up onto his knees. "That's all I have to do? And you just left me here in this room unbound and with my weapons? What's to stop _me_ from killing you and taking my freedom by myself?"

"You _could_ kill me," the woman chuckled. "You're at perfect liberty to proceed however you wish. I wouldn't even stop you if you tried to kill me. But let's at least be patient enough to hear the victims out before making your decision, right?"

Crixus felt as though it was no less than fate that this had happened. Anyone else would have jumped at the chance for freedom and killed the assassin woman where she lurked. But he had been weaned on the legends of the Dark Brotherhood. Though those legends seemed to vanish as he grew older, he was now staring down a living legend before his eyes: they were real. If they were real, then the stories about them were real. There was no way in all of Tamriel that he would let this opportunity slip out of his hands. The Dark Brotherhood were real and they were watching him.

He nodded. "Very well. I'll play your game."

Drawing out a knife, he walked over to the first of the three prisoners, the Khajiit. With one hand he lifted the shrouded head up and placed the dagger to the Khajiit's hairy throat.

"Who's there?" a sly voice asked from beneath the hood. "Come now, Vasha knows you're listening. Hmm? Perhaps we can talk like civilized folk. Untie my hands and take this filthy shroud off my head!"

"Who are you?" Crixus asked.

"Vasha at your service," the Khajiit replied proudly. "Obtainer of fine goods, taker of lives, defiler of daughters. Have you not heard of me? Perhaps Vasha will have his people carve his name into your body as a reminder, hmm?"

"Why would someone want you killed?" he asked.

The Khajiit laughed. "Are you serious? Vasha lives in the shadow of death every day. He would consider it an insult of the highest order if one of his enemies did not try to kill him. This is not the first time Vasha has been bagged and dragged."

Crixus rolled his eyes. Clearly this Khajiit was bluffing, trying to sound intimidating in order to scare whoever might try to kill him. He moved on to the woman, placing his dagger at her throat. The moment he did, however, she barked at him.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" she asked.

"A Nibenay," Crixus mused aloud.

"I may be from the Riverlands," the woman continued. "But I am a mother! I can't be tied up like some common rabble! Let me go now, I demand that you let me go!"

"What's your name?" he asked.

"None of your damned business," she returned. "Let me out of here or by Mara, when I get out of here, you're dead! Do you hear me? Dead!"

Crixus grinned as he shushed her quietly. She certainly had the Colovian spirit. "Is there any reason someone would want you dead?"

"What kind of stupid-ass question is that?" she returned.

"No need to be so feisty," Crixus hushed. "We're all friends here. Just tell me what I need to know."

"Then get me out of here, you bastard!" she retorted. "I'm a mother of six, I don't have time to be nice!"

There would not be anything more out of her. He moved towards the larger figure: definitely a Nord he took by the shape he cut. He pressed the dagger into the Nord's throat, not enough to break the skin but enough to show that he meant business. The large man squirmed beneath the cold knife.

"Please, please, don't kill me!" the Nord wept. "I'm just a soldier, just doing my duty. Surely you won't harm nobody for doing their job, will you?"

"Shut up and tell me your name!" Crixus returned.

"F-f-f-Fultheim," stammered the Nord. "I'm a soldier...well, mercenary, that is. Sellsword and all. Lived in Skyrim all me life. That's it, really: I ain't nobody. Can't you just let me go?"

"Now who would want _you_ dead?" Crixus asked.

"What?" Fultheim began, then suddenly quivered all over. "Oh, please, gods, no!"

"Answer me!" Crixus roared, shaking the boards of the shack. "Answer me or die!"

"Please, I don't know nothing!" wept Fultheim. "I'm a soldier, I do what I'm told. Me chief Holgrim led a raid on a Stormcloak camp. I told him there weren't no honor in killing sleeping men. He didn't listen to me! He didn't listen! That was it, I swear! Well, maybe there were a few other times when I got carried away, but war is war, right?"

Crixus rolled his eyes. In his mind, _this_ was the culmination of the Nord race: a simpering, blubbering idiot whose legend far outweighed his talent. It would be too good to let him live, since he had probably killed many people as a 'mercenary' sellsword. Furthermore, killing him now would be just as good: during the time in Riften, he learned of the Nord's belief in Sovngarde, some plane of Aetherius where the brave and the bold, those who die in battle, go to spend eternity drinking and sparring. This was neither a battle, and so it would be good to put him out of his misery now and keep his beloved Sovngarde from him.

"Say goodbye, Nordic cunt!" Crixus whispered in Fultheim's ear.

"Oh, please!" Fultheim screamed. "Please help me! I don't want to die!"

He dove the dagger into Fultheim's chest, right through the heart. A stream of blood gushed out onto Crixus' forearm, covering his ranger clothes and leather Thieves Guild armor in the warm, vermillion stream of life from Fultheim's heart, beating feverishly as death lingered about him. For a moment he paused, letting Fultheim gasp and choke as he bled out. The Dark Brotherhood killed evil people: he was obviously the target, therefore he deserved the most ignominious death possible. Then, in one quick moment of doubt, he asked himself a question that never occurred to his mind initially, but now came flooding back like the stream of blood pouring out of Fultheim's ruptured heart.

_What if Vasha really _was_ the guilty one?_

"Oh ho," chuckled the voice behind him. "The whimpering Nord. A man should face his death with dignity, not like that milk-drinker. I'm impressed." Crixus heard the sound of clinking behind him. Turning around, he saw a key lying on the straw-ridden floor of the shack.

"Your freedom, as promised," she stated. "Although, I would like to welcome you into the family of the Dark Brotherhood. You seem to be an efficient killer and we could always use someone like you. If you're interested, go to the west road in the pine forests of Falkreath, the southern hold. Just off the road you'll find the door to our sanctuary. Speak 'silence, my brother' and you will begin your new life with us."

"Wait a minute," Crixus asked, the doubtful part of his heart still musing as he pulled his knife, covered in blood up to his elbow, from Fultheim's body. "Which one was the contract?"

"Does it matter?" the woman asked. "The only important thing is the here and now. You have your freedom, do with it as you will. If you choose to join us..."

"What makes you so sure I'm eager to join the Dark Brotherhood?" Crixus asked.

"Death is the way of all things," the woman stated. "And death hangs heavy upon you: I could see it in your eyes when I found you lying in the road. I know I've made the right choice. I'll be seeing you soon...brother."

Crixus picked up the key and made his way towards the door.

* * *

**(AN: There we go, Crixus has taken another step down a dark road from which few have ever returned. We also see the introduction of one of our secondary characters, as well as a bit of extra dialogue based on how we saw said character in her cameo from _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_. As for the skooma, the UESP page said that it was a stimulant, so some of the things written here were textbook amphetamine side-effects.)  
**

**(Been working lately, so i had no time to write. Hopefully i'll have some more time to put into this story.)**


	23. Strange Friends and Dampened Spirits

**(AN: Aside from being frustrated with fandoms and some kick ass working, i've had a few thoughts on some of the things that might happen in this story. In this chapter in particular, we have two character previously featured in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ who we never really saw much about them. They will be explored somewhat in this chapter and more in the coming ones...hopefully. Also writing this chapter will be difficult: with Eirik, it was easy to write chapters in Whiterun since everyone there was a loyalist who hated the Stormcloaks, so obviously that was something i could personally relate to. For Crixus, everyone here already has the same opinion as him [as well as those who are reading this story, lol], so it won't be as easy to write.)**

* * *

**Strange Friends and Dampened Spirits**

A lone figure, clad in mud-caked and blood-stained ranger garb and cloak, made his way towards the hill-top city of Whiterun. It was a clear spring morning and, being the trade capital of Skyrim, the gates of Whiterun were open and there was a great throng of carts, merchants and peddlers on their way to and from the city. The palisade walls and towers held the city guards, clad in golden tabards with the horse in black upon their shields. They eyed the strange man suspiciously, but did not engage him. He bore no insignia on himself, either of the Stormcloak rebels or the Imperial Legion.

At the gates, Servius Crixus paused and looked inside. All the buildings inside looked the same: wooden huts that were positively primitive compared to the stone mansions in Anvil or the adobe-sandstone buildings of Mournhold. They all looked the same and he might pass the Bannered Mare on his way through this town, little more than a village in his estimation. He would have to find himself someone who could direct him there.

Wearily he passed into the Plains District, the lowest of the three districts in the city. There were many people milling about here and there, on their business or going to their houses or to work. They concerned him as little as this village of thatched barns did: only insomuch as they were useful to him. At the end of the road he came to a small plaza centered around a well, with a path leading up to the left onto a higher part of the hill. As he went thither, he saw a sight that made his blood boil. In the center of this higher plateau, called the Wind District by the locals, was a large dying tree surrounded by a wooden pergola. But it was what stood beyond the pergola and the dead tree that angered Crixus. He saw a statue of a tall bearded warrior with a winged helmet wielding a sword, with which he impaled a serpent which he held under his feet. Before the statue was an old man in the orange robes of a priest, speaking with all the fervor and zeal of a madman.

"Terrible and powerful Talos!" cried the mad priest. "We, your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment! And deserve our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos: not as god, but as man! But you were once man! Aye, and as man you said: 'Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now in royalty and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you!'"

Crixus rolled his eyes. The priest was breaking the law and the Jarl was violating the White-Gold Concordant by having this blasphemous shrine in the center of a loyal hold. Everything he had read about Talos from Zurin Arctus' book 'The Arcturian Heresy' as well as 'The Real Barenziah', 'The Legacy of a God' and 'The Talos Mistake', gave in Crixus' mind the image of Tiber Septim as a callous, greedy, treacherous, bigoted and war-mongering tyrant: in short, he was the Nordic race personified in one man. As a youth he knew little about Talos other than that he was one of the Nine they prayed to in the chapel and during the War, there were many Nords in the Legion who called his name when they went to their deaths. It was only during his stay in Mournhold that he learned what he believed to be true about Talos and allowed that the White-Gold Concordant was well meaning. Talos did not deserve to be renowned even as a great man, much less a god.

"Talos didn't love nobody but himself!" a voice cried out from the crowd. Crixus wanted to buy the Nord who said those words a drink.

"Aye, love!" the crazy priest continued. "Love! Even as a man, great Talos cherished us. For he saw in us, in each of us, the future of Skyrim! The future of Tamriel!"

"He saw his own advancement, you old cock-sucker!" roared the one who had spoken.

"And there it is, friends," continued the priest. "We are the children of man. Talos is the true god of man, ascended from flesh to rule the realm of the spirit! The very idea is inconceivable to our elvish overloads! Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence here on earth!"

"We can barely tolerate your presence, Heimskr!"

"Go suck off Ulfric, you old man!"

"Today, the elves take away your faith," Heimskr continued. "But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives? And what does the Empire do? Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing: the Imperial machine enforces the will of the Thalmor...against its own people!"

"The Empire is law!" one shouted.

"You're crazy, Heimskr!"

"What about your Ulfric, hmm?" asked the one who had been the most vocal. "He slew his own people at Markarth, didn't he?"

"So rise up, children of Skyrim!" Heimskr continued. "Rise up, Stormcloaks! Embrace the word of mighty Talos, he who is both man and Divine!"

Crixus had had enough. His words were treacherous, blasphemous and he was instigating insurrection. Picking up a stone from the ground, he threw it as hard as he could, pelting the old man in the head. Peels of laughter rose from the people, along with cheers and hands clapped. From out of the crowd, one man approached him. He was obviously a Nord, with his long blond hair and steel blue eyes, but he was dressed in the armor and uniform of the Imperial Legion. His beard was more of a short dagger blade at the end of his chin and his mustache curled up at the ends.

"I saw what you did," he greeted Crixus. "You should be commended. Nobody in this town has the stones to stand up to Heimskr except me and my family."

"And you are?" Crixus asked.

"Idolaf Battle-Born," the Nord replied proudly. "Of the great Clan Battle-Born. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"No," Crixus returned. "I've been in Mournhold for the past twenty years."

"Yes, them damn dark elves," grumbled Idolaf. "Still, you're an Imperial, ain't you? I can tell that from your voice."

"I am in the Legion," Crixus replied.

"Then can you tell me when they'll come to liberate us from all these heathen half-wits?" Idolaf asked. "I cannot stand to be around them! They are a blight upon this town and an insult to my race! Not all Nords are like that Heimskr or Ulfric Stormcloak. You'll find loyal folk in Whiterun; we don't take none of Ulfric's lies about freedom or the pride of Nords. We know our place, and that's at the Empire's side. And you'll find none loyaler in all of Skyrim than Clan Battle-Born."

"That's good," Crixus stated. "For a while there, I was under the impression that everyone in Skyrim were just a bunch of ignorant savages, pounding their amulets of Talos upon their chests with their fists as they rolled around in mud and shite in their thatched barns."

"It's like that everywhere here, I know," Idolaf stated. "But not all of us are like that. Why, rumor has it that Edvald the Wise, count of Bruma, is civilize his county, make it more like the rest of Cyrodiil. If only we had more Jarls like that here in Skyrim, people like Ulfric would never be allowed to exist."

"We can only hope," Crixus added.

At that point, another Nord approached Crixus. This one was shorter than Idolaf and stockier, but his shoulders were broad and he bore plenty of war-scars to make the clean-faced Idolaf look like a child in comparison. He was clad in gray armor that looked like Imperial legate armor, but was damasked with two wolf heads gazing upon an axe upon the breastplate. Also there was a large grey dire-wolf pelt over the Nord's shoulders. Like Crixus, he was bald and bristling about his chin, but one eye was whitened from an old scar.

"By the gods!" the old Nord exclaimed. "Servius, is that you?"

"Please excuse me, loyal friend," Idolaf said to Crixus. "I have to go. I see you attract rabble as well as intelligent folk."

"Good morning to you too, Idolaf," the old Nord greeted.

"Don't you talk down to me, Skjor!" the blond Nord retorted angrily. "You and your kind, harboring a traitor in your midst! Two of them!"

"Vignar and Eorlund don't fight for the Stormcloaks," Skjor stated. "They fight for the honor of Ysgramor and the Companions. You know that."

"They're heathens and traitors, both of them!" Idolaf roared. "And I won't be party to no friend of traitors!" Idolaf spat at the ground before Skjor's feet, then walked away angrily. Meanwhile, old Skjor turned to Crixus and held out his arms to him. Crixus backed away defensively, then after a moment, they wrapped their arms around each other in a warm embrace.

"You son of a b*tch," Crixus chuckled. "I thought you were dead."

"Almost," Skjor replied. "And I see you're still in one piece. What happened after the Battle of the Red Ring? Never heard from you until now."

Crixus' countenance fell. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm much more interested in catching up with you, old man. Buy me a drink at the Bannered Mare, wherever that is."

"The mead's better up at Jorrvaskr," Skjor replied. "Besides, Kodlak is here too."

"Kodlak?" Crixus asked. "Legate Whitemane, the greatest soldier in General Jonna's legion?"

"He's now Harbinger of the Companions," Skjor proudly stated. "And no finer man can be found in all of Skyrim. He'd be happy to meet you as well. Come, I'll take you to the hall and introduce you to the Companions, then we can have a drink and reminisce on the good old days."

Crixus sighed. "I have business in the Bannered Mare. Just show me where it's at, and I'll be on my way."

"You're not staying in Whiterun?" Skjor asked.

"I'm not sure," Crixus replied. "I only know that I have business in the Bannered Mare."

Skjor nodded. "Perhaps when your business is concluded, you'll come back this way. For old times sake?" He turned and pointed towards a large hall that had the appearance of a ship turned upside down. "There's Jorrvaskr, our mead hall. You'll find us in there. Kodlak will be pleased to see you."

"Thank you for the offer," Crixus nodded. "Now where's the Bannered Mare?"

"Back the way you came and to the left," Skjor chuckled, pointing towards a large building back down on the Plains District in the market plaza Crixus had just left.

* * *

Crixus nodded, then made his way back down the sloping hill to the large building. Pushing the door open, he saw that it was filled with many patrons. Several young adventurers were discussing the latest news from the roads to the west and east. An old warrior in iron with a horned helmet, the favorite of amateur adventurers in Skyrim, was complaining about the lack of discipline among the Whiterun guards. A minstrel, or bard or whatever they called them here, was kneeling in front of a table full of young women, who were giggling at what he was saying to them. At one table, an Argonian adventurer and two Bosmer were having a heated discussion with a large Nord woman clad in steel armor. She was large, like most of the women in Skyrim, according to Crixus' estimation, but she looked battle-hardened. Her face, lined with the twilight of her autumn years, bore the scars of one who had seen fighting in her younger days.

Why couldn't Elisif give me her to be my housecarl? Crixus asked himself with a sigh. He then walked over to the table and saw a rather wealthy-looking Imperial with dark, sunken eyes at their table. Perhaps this was his man? He decided to join their table to find out.

"Excuse me," he interjected. "Is there room for one more at this table?"

"Not at all," the young Bosmer replied merrily. "Have a seat."

"I will find you a drink," the Argonian stated.

"Please, Lady Battle-Wolf," the other Bosmer said to the large woman. "Continue."

"Well," the Nord woman continued. "There isn't much else to tell, I think. She ran off towards Winterhold and hasn't been seen since the first of this month."

"Let her stay there," the first Bosmer stated. "If she has that kind of power, it would be best for her to remain in the cold, where she can't harm anyone."

"Talas, do you not know about northern hold?" the second Bosmer asked. "The Nords have a wizard's college there. She will likely find her way there and become even more powerful than the Battle-Wolf has told us."

"Not bloody likely," the Argonian stated stoically.

"From what I saw," the Nord woman stated. "She's as dangerous to anyone who comes in contact with her as herself."

"That would have never happened," the Imperial stated. "If Skyrim recognized the authority of the Synod."

"It doesn't matter much to me," said the Battle-Wolf. "I'm a warrior, not a nurse-maid. And that girl is a disgrace to her people. A woman should be able to keep her head about herself in a dangerous situation, not fly off the handle of a broom like some kind of mad thing." There was uneasy silence, broken by a bout of laughter from the table of the young women and the minstrel.

"So," the Bosmer Talas spoke up, breaking the silence. "What shall we talk of next?"

"Maybe the stranger should introduce himself," the Battle-Wolf suggested.

"Severus Crixus," he stated, using once more a false name. "I'm a ranger from Bravil."

"A fellow Colovian?" asked the Imperial. "I trust you're not too off-put by the difference between Cyrodiil and Skyrim."

"Really?" Crixus asked with a chuckle. "I never noticed."

"We're also from Cyrodiil," Talas spoke up, gesturing to the other elf. "My twin brother and I. Our family moved to Kvatch shortly before the Great War began. Talas is my name and this is my brother Tanis."

"I am called Brightest-Eyes," the Argonian stoically stated.

"People call me 'Unbroken' and 'Battle-Wolf'," the large Nord woman stated. "You may call me Uthgerd, since that's my name."

"And you?" Crixus asked, turning to the Imperial.

"My name is not important right now," he stated, then winked slyly before turning to Uthgerd. "So, is there anything else you'd like to share?"

"Actually," Uthgerd stated. "I never heard what brought you two to Skyrim." She turned to the two Bosmer.

"We've heard some rumors about strange goings on in the east of Skyrim," said Tanis, the second one. "Naturally..."

"You came to Whiterun?" asked the Imperial.

"Of course," Talas interjected. "This is the beating heart of this land. News always passes through here, which is why we wanted to know if there was anything we could learn. But the borders were closed and the soldiers wanted us to turn back. Then she showed up."

"She?" Crixus asked. "Who was she?"

"A woman, I think," Tanis stated. "At least she sounded like a woman, a very young woman. But she didn't look like a woman."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, all you Nords look alike..." Talas began.

"I'm not a Nord!" Crixus interjected. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me one!"

"My apologies," Talas returned, then continued. "It is only, well, Nord men and women both have long hair. And, well..."

"What?" Uthgerd asked.

"Your pardon, Lady Battle-Wolf," Tanis added. "This girl we met must have been as large as a horker."

"No, bigger than that," Talas conjectured. "Possibly the size of an ogre."

"Could you be a bit more specific?" Crixus chuckled. "All the women I've met in Skyrim are that large."

"What's wrong with being large?" Uthgerd asked aggressively, pounding her fist on the table. "I bet I could snap your neck in half with one hand."

"Please, no fighting!" Brightest-Eyes interjected.

"I'll fight this milk-drinker right now if he wants to!" Uthgerd stated, rising up out of her seat. "I've never been beaten in a fight, and I don't think you'll be the one to do it now!"

"You misunderstand me," Tanis stated. "I did not mean to say that she was large the way that Uthgerd is large: strong, hearty and capable of holding their own in a battle."

"Although," Talas whispered towards Crixus. "I agree with you. These Nords are all very large to us."

"What I meant to say," Tanis continued. "Was that she was even larger. Imagine a gourd that had somehow, by magic, if you will, sprouted legs, arms and a head. Short, stubby legs and useless arms that could not overcome its massive girth. That would be close to what I described."

"I think you're being unfair," Uthgerd grumbled as she took her seat, realizing that no one was going to brawl with her. "A strong body is needed for adventuring across Tamriel, especially in Skyrim."

"Strength is not everything, Battle-Wolf," stated Talas. "No offense meant, of course. But, you must understand, for my people, quickness and nimbleness of body are more important for survival than mere strength. It would be a sign of weakness to be fat and incapable of swift movement. 'The mangroves hide many deadly things,' as an old elvish proverb goes. 'It is good to be quicker than they are.'"

"What do you think, Brijj-eii?" Tanis asked the Argonian, using his Black Marsh name.

"Argonians do not become fat," Brightest-Eyes stated.

"Friend Mallus," Tanis asked the Imperial. "What do you think?" Crixus turned his eyes to Mallus, who seemed uneasy about his name being mentioned but said nothing right off other than a noncommittal: "It is of no consequence to me. Why don't you ask Crixus?"

"Well?" Tanis asked.

"If they can defend themselves and stand their own in a fight," Crixus stated. "Then it doesn't matter to me. But if they are incapable of doing that, they will just be a nuisance."

"Well," Uthgerd stated. "I think you're over-exaggerating your story, Talas. A strong woman should be respected, no matter her size."

"Well, this one got us out of a tight spot," Tanis stated with a chuckle. "She seemed to catch the guards off-spot and, I daresay, fall on them. Talas and I got away, but by the mangroves! What a sight!"

Uthgerd rolled her eyes. "I just hope I don't find your hand in my pocket, or I'll hang it around my neck as a trophy."

"We're not thieves, exactly," Talas interjected. "Merely...curious about the rumors of the Thieves Guild in Skyrim. Word in Cyrodiil is that they've been growing of late and we've come to see if those rumors are true."

"I'd say you'll know soon enough," Mallus nodded.

"Well," Uthgerd groaned, looking towards the table with the young women. "I have to go. Mikael never seems to learn his lesson." She rose up from the table and walked over to the other one, while Mallus, meanwhile, turned his attention to Crixus.

"We've got quite a lot to do," he whispered. "So I'm going to keep this short and to the point." He turned to the two elves. "Go on ahead of us, I have to clue him in."

They nodded, then made their way over to the bar to pay for their drinks while Mallus turned back to Crixus.

"Maven sent word ahead of you," he began. "But she didn't tell me that you would be four days in coming here! Did you dawdle every step of the way?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Crixus stated, trying desperately to forget the stench of mold, blood, sweat and piss. "I'm here, let's get it over with."

"Good man," Mallus nodded. "Sabjorn, that's the owner of Honningbrew meadery, is holding a tasting for the captain of the Whiterun guard, Commander Caius. We're going to poison the mead in order to get them shut down. Oh, nothing life-threatening, just enough to make Commander Caius violently ill for a while."

"Alright," Crixus nodded. "Give me the poison."

Mallus chuckled. "That's the beauty of it, though. Sabjorn's going to _give_ us the poison. You see, Honningbrew has something of a skeever problem: half of Whiterun knows this. You're going to take Tanis and Talas over there and offer your services in ridding the meadery of the rodents. He'll give you the poison, which you'll then put into the vat which is going to be used for the tasting. It's marked with a bee on the vat, that's how you'll know the right one."

"But why them?" Crixus asked, gesturing to the two elves as they were leaving the inn. "I can do this all on my own!"

"Well," Mallus shrugged. "Once Sabjorn is safely in the Whiterun jail, Maven Black-Briar has plans for the meadery. Her business will be expanding, but she can't be in two places at once, can she?"

"I see where you're going," Crixus smirked.

"I'm only here because I owe Sabjorn money," Mallus stated. "Once he's in jail, my debt will be cleared and I'll run the Whiterun branch of the famous Black-Briar meadery. Clearing the skeevers out only makes my job easier. Now get your act together before Sabjorn grows wits and hires somebody else."

Crixus nodded, then left the Bannered Mare without looking back. He had a job to do.

* * *

The Honningbrew meadery was located on the road just south of Whiterun, in a wide grassy plain stretching from the foot of the hill on which Whiterun was built to the snow-capped mountains to the south. Several farms dotted this wide landscape, green as spring was coming and rain had fallen on these fields over the past few days. The road snaked down from the hilly ground and ruined fortifications around the city towards the fertile farmland, splitting them in half before forking at the White River at the foot of the Throat of the World. One path forded the river over a sturdy stone bridge, snaking off towards Valtheim Towers, the only passage from Eastmarch to Whiterun. Another path snaked southward along the edge of the river, following it up towards those snow-capped mountains where it was lost in a thicket of green pine-trees.

Crixus followed the road to a large wooden structure, much like the many others about the farmland, where he saw the two elves waiting for him. They had apparently gotten a head start and were standing out in front of the door of the large building.

"Here," Crixus began. "What are you two on about?"

"Oh, the meadery?" Tanis asked. "Well, there's something we didn't let slip in front of Uthgerd or Brightest-Eyes."

"You see," Talas added. "My brother and I are with the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil."

"You are?" Crixus chuckled.

"Yes," Tanis nodded. "When we heard about the actions going on in Skyrim, we thought we'd come to see if it was real."

"Did you really think Skyrim had the monopoly on the Thieves Guild?" Talas laughed.

"No, of course not," Crixus replied. "But how did you know that Mallus and I..."

"Maven Black-Briar has connections in Cyrodiil," Tanis stated.

"Nothing goes on without her knowledge," Talas added.

"So we know," they both said at once.

The way they said that unnerved Crixus, but he quickly dismissed it. They had nothing to do with the Dark Brotherhood, as far as he knew. It would be ignorant to jump to conclusions, especially about two elves. Determined, therefore, that he would learn the rest later, he walked towards the meadery and opened the door. Inside he saw a bald Nord gazing down at the bodies of two skeevers lying on the floor.

"What are you lot gawking at, huh?" he asked in a weary, defeated voice.

"You look like you have a problem on your hands," Crixus commented, playing coy.

"By the gods," groaned the bald Nord. "And I have a tasting this afternoon! If Commander Caius sees this, I'm ruined!"

"Perhaps we could be of assistance?" Crixus asked. "Get rid of the vermin for you?"

The bald Nord turned to Crixus. "Just like that?"

"Well, we will be expecting payment," Crixus added. "For all of us."

"Of course," the Nord groaned. "Nobody in Skyrim does anything out of the goodness of their hearts anymore. They expect that once you have a business going, suddenly you're magically blessed with enough money to fix all of your problems, so they want in on it!"

"Quite a whiny b*tch, isn't he?" Crixus muttered to Tanis and Talas.

"Very well," said the Nord with a resigned sigh. "But don't be asking for a single septim before you've done the job. Do the job first, then I'll pay you."

"Whatever," Crixus rolled his eyes.

"Just get rid of the vermin before my reputation is destroyed," he stated. "Oh, where is Mallus? He's always loafing about, never doing his job! It's no wonder he couldn't pay me back, the idiot never works!"

"You don't sound too happy about it," Crixus added.

The Nord swore. "I guess I'll just give you the poison, since Mallus has so much free time on his hands. It's over there, on the counter. Go find the vermin's nest somewhere and place this in it: should drive them out."

"Understood," Crixus nodded.

Crixus took the poison from the bar counter and then he and the two elves made their way across the room to a door that was just recently shut. Opening it up, it led into a tunnel that went down into a stone basement. Tanis, who brought up the rear, closed the door behind them, sending them all into pitch blackness. Crixus felt for the wall on his left-hand side and slowly made his way down the stairs.

"He doesn't seem all that bad," Crixus mused.

"Mallus called him a tyrant," Talas stated. "Said he gave him the money knowing that he'd be unable to pay it off. Also said that he doesn't pay him very much and is always bossing him around."

"It doesn't matter to me," Crixus lied. "We have a job to do."

"Right," Tanis whispered. "We'll take care of the skeevers, you do what you came here to do."

They went on in darkness for a moment, but Crixus was at a loss. He had no qualms about stealing from people if it was done in the name of the Thieves Guild. True to what Tanis and Talas had said, there was a Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil as well as other parts of Tamriel. They were an essential part of how life functioned in the world: taking the Thieves Guild away was tantamount to taking away the land and asking everyone to live in a world full of water. But hearing the wearied and resigned moaning of the Nord, whom Crixus assumed was Sabjorn, made him wonder just who he had been hurting with his theft so far? Were the people he was robbing from rich people who could afford to lose a few thousand drakes here and there or the poor who could barely make enough to feed their children?

At the end of the flight of stairs, they passed into a low-ceiling basement dimly lit with a torch on either end. Nearby they saw the mangled bodies of a few skeevers in large bear-traps on the floor. A screech was heard across the room and Tanis fit an arrow in his bow and sent it off into the darkness: a squeal later and there was no longer a problem.

"Ha," Crixus jested. "That was a fine shot."

"Of course it is," Tanis stated. "Talas and I are the best archers in all of Tamriel. There's no man or mer who can match us."

"Really?" he asked. "I would like to see that."

"Well," Talas chuckled. "We would like to see what happens when Sabjorn feeds Commander Caius poisoned mead."

"You won't be there?" Crixus asked.

"No," Tanis shook his head. "We're going to stay here and remove the skeevers. You've got to be the one doing the deed. Be sure to tell us how it went."

"But which way..." Crixus began.

"That way," Talas stated, pointing across the basement and to the right. "That door goes up to the boilery. That's where you'll be going. We're going down there." He pointed to the wall at the far end of the basement, which had a hole at the bottom barely large enough for a fully-grown Nord to crawl through but enough for a spry wood elf.

"That's how the skeevers got in here," Tanis said. "And it's how we'll get to their nest. Good hunting."

The two elves and Crixus crossed the basement to the other side, picking their way through a slough of dead skeevers. The stench coming from the hole was enough to knock anyone out: even with their noses held, it was overwhelming. Tanis and Talas crawled into the hole while Crixus made his way to the right and up the flight of stairs into the boilery.

It was deserted, save for a few large iron vats. Looking around, he saw one that bore the mark: a bee under which was written 'Honningbrew Reserve.' It did not take Crixus long afterwards to find a ladder that led to a top floor. Here one could approach the top of the vats and pour the unrefined substance into the vats for fermenting. Keeping in his mind the precise vat which had the mark, Crixus opened the top and poured the vial of poison into it.

He then made his way back to the basement and then up to the tasting room of the meadery. As he was looking around, he saw a stairwell at the back of the room behind the bar counter. Hopping quickly over it, he climbed up the stairs and found himself in what appeared to be Sabjorn's room. There was a small closet door, which Crixus found, when he examined it, to be locked. Taking out his lock-picks, he had the door open after almost bending the tiny pick in the lock. Inside there was a golden decanter, which he decided would be something that Delvin might find interesting. Turning around, he saw a note on the dresser by Sabjorn's bed. Walking over, he picked it up, hoping that he would find something inside that would give him an idea as to how Honningbrew meadery got up and running so quickly.

Suddenly there was the sound of the door opening downstairs. Stowing the letter in his jacket pocket, Crixus kept out of sight while he saw Sabjorn contending with a bald man in the garb of the Whiterun city guard. From his accent, Crixus guessed that the man was Colovian and not a Nord. Perhaps Whiterun really was more progressive than the rest of Skyrim, allowing an Imperial to run the safety of their people. They were talking for a while and, Crixus realized, that Sabjorn was being pressed for time. He also learned that he would be going to look for him and, since he was up here, would not find him down in the basement where he should be. Just as Sabjorn had turned his back and was making for the stairwell down into the basement, Crixus placed the decanter on the floor upstairs and quietly walked down the stairs and announced himself.

"Looking for me?" he asked.

"What were you doing up there?" Sabjorn asked, gesturing to his room.

"I was looking for you," Crixus lied. "I have good news."

"Is it done?" Sabjorn asked.

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Now where's my money?"

"Look, I'm a little busy right now, can't you see?" Sabjorn retorted, gesturing to Commander Caius. "You'll just have to wait until I'm done here. For now...uh, take a seat over there." He gestured to a seat near the door. "Mallus! Where are you?" There was no answer. Sabjorn groaned to the commander. "Lazy good-for-nothing, makes me do everything myself! Uh, will you excuse me, sir? I'll be right out with our finest reserve."

Crixus waited awkwardly as Sabjorn left the room, passing by him briefly to mutter "We'll talk about this later" before disappearing down the stairs into the basement. A few uneasy minutes passed as Crixus made sure the letter he had picked up was safe against his breast. He looked over Commander Caius for a few brief moments, noting how much he stood out from the usual pale-skinned, straw-headed local types. He almost pitied this man, since he was about to be poisoned and suffer great sickness.

_Once again,_ Crixus sighed inside. _I'm made to make someone else's life a bit harder._

Moments later, the equally bald Sabjorn walked out with a large bottle. If Crixus believed in prayer, he would have prayed that there wasn't another vat of Honningbrew Reserve which he had failed to poison. Even if there were another vat or a secret decanter which Sabjorn kept hidden, it would be too late to poison anything now. He would just have to wait it out and make due with whatever happened next. There could be no turning back now.

"Here we are," Sabjorn stated. "The finest Honningbrew Reserve."

"Hmm," Commander Caius mused. "You know, there are rumors that this place has been infested by skeevers."

"That's old news, sir," Sabjorn laughed. "This gentleman over here saw to the cleaning of the meadery. Now here we are, the finest of my mead."

"Ah, thank you," Caius smiled. "You seem to have everything under control, and rather quickly as well."

"Of course, of course," Sabjorn continued, reaching under the counter for a tankard for the commander.

"One would think, though," Caius began. "With the local moonshine and the Black-Briar, it would be difficult getting a business like yours up and running so quickly, with the resources to find someone to cure this little problem so soon as well."

"Bah!" Sabjorn scoffed. "The local stuff comes and goes, but my brew has the advantage of being inexpensive and yet quality material. Also, Jarl Balgruuf has been most generous in permitting me land to expand my enterprise. Every month I sell more Honningbrew mead, Balgruuf gets a cut and Maven loses customers: everybody wins. Besides, my mead tastes better. It excites the palate in a pleasing and intricate way..."

"Oh come now," scoffed Caius. "This isn't some fine Colovian wine, it's mead! Speaking of which..."

"Here I am, master!" Crixus turned towards the door and saw Mallus walk into the door, a grim expression on his face as he kept his eyes down.

"Where were you?" Sabjorn shouted. "Will you please remind me what I pay you to do?"

"Everything!" Mallus retorted.

"Don't you take that tone with me," Sabjorn replied. "Or you'll soon find yourself without a job!"

"You can't fire me," Mallus stated. "You would be lost without me!"

"Go clean something," Sabjorn dismissed. "And leave us alone for a minute. Gods know you'd love that, taking over-long breaks and rests as it is!"

"I could always come back later," Commander Caius interjected.

"Oh, no! Not at all!" Sabjorn apologized, turning to the commander. "It is essential that the Jarl see that his trust has been well placed."

"You mean his gold, don't you?" asked the commander.

"Oh no, none of my funds came from Balgruuf," Sabjorn continued. "That was one of the things which he was most keen on: that this cost him little. I told him that it would cost him nothing."

"Nothing?" scoffed Caius in disbelief. "How are you making up for the costs of this venture? Surely it must have cost a fortune!"

"Indeed," Sabjorn replied. "But I have...shall we say, a silent partner, one who was been more than willing to aid me financially."

"And who is this..."

"Oh, look, here we are!" Sabjorn exclaimed, bringing up the tankard filled with golden mead. "Drink up, commander. This is my finest brew yet."

"Finally," groaned the commander, taking the tankard and lifting it up. "Cheers." He then took a hearty swig of it, while Crixus watched silently, hoping that he had chosen the right one.

Suddenly the commander gasped and spat the mead out of his mouth onto the floor, turning to Sabjorn with disgust in his eyes.

"By the Eight!" he exclaimed. "What is this?"

"It's our finest Honningbrew Reserve!" Sabjorn replied, shocked.

"It tastes like rat poison," Caius coughed. "What are you trying to do, poison me?"

"N-No!" Sabjorn stuttered. "Never! This is a horrible misunderstanding!"

"Tell it to the jailer!" Caius retorted. "I'm taking you in for questioning."

"Please, I beg you!" Sabjorn continued. "This is not what it seems!"

"Poisoning the captain of the Whiterun guard is a punishable offense," Caius stated. "And I'm not one for letting rules slip for anyone, no matter how closely tied to the Jarl they are!"

"He did it!" Sabjorn shouted, pointing towards Crixus. "He must have! I gave him poison to kill the skeevers in the basement, he must have put it in the reserve! Why did you do it, huh? Did Maven put you up to it?"

"So you admit to buying poison," Caius groaned. "Well, we'll find out just where the truth lies after a few days in Dragonsreach dungeon!" He turned to Mallus. "Your master is being arrested, that means you're in charge until he's gone." He turned back to Sabjorn. "Now, let's get going!"

"Please, you don't understand..."

"I said move!" the commander shouted, drawing out a gladius from his belt. Sabjorn crumbled under the commander's relentless gaze and was at last driven towards the door with the commander's sword at his back. While they were leaving, Crixus saw Mallus Maccius walk towards the bar, a smug grin on his face as he gazed after Sabjorn.

"Farewell, Sabjorn," he bade farewell with a mocking wave of his fingers. At last he closed the door and burst forth into peels of laughter.

"Yes! At last, I'm free of that old goat!" he rejoiced. Quickly he turned to Crixus. "I should probably thank you for this, though."

"It was a good caper, though," Crixus smiled, rising up from the chair. "I almost worried when he accused me."

"Oh, that's nothing," Mallus replied. "Maven has agreed that, with this facility under my control, I'll now act as an agent of the Thieves Guild in Whiterun."

"Really?" Crixus asked.

"Yes, really," Mallus nodded. "'Tis a glorious day for the Thieves Guild in Skyrim: in so short a time, from vagabonds in the sewers to spreading their influence all the way to Whiterun! And we have only you to thank!"

"Yes, you do," Crixus stated. "Though, I wouldn't say _only_ me. There are other members of the Thieves Guild, doing their part."

"But after today," Mallus added. "No one will think about tangling with the Thieves Guild or the Black-Briar family!"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Well, I must be off. Things to do, you know. By the way, there was a gold decanter upstairs in Sabjorn's room. I might..."

"Yes, of course," Mallus laughed. "Sabjorn won't be needing it anymore!"

Crixus ran back upstairs and retrieved the decanter. While he was there, he paused momentarily to read the letter he had swiped from Sabjorn's dresser.

_Sabjorn,_

_I hope this note of promissiory reaches you safely. With it I sent a small chest: in it you will find the final payment. As discussed, Honningbrew meadery should now begin brewing mead at full production. In regards to your concern about Maven Black-Briar, I can assure you that I'll do everything within my power to keep her assets and cronies at bay. This is the beginning of a long and successful future for both of us._

The note was very much like the bill of sale he had found at Goldenglow Estate. The hand-writing was the same and there was even the strange symbol scratched into the top of the note: a circle with a cross-like shape impaling it from the top. It was the same one exactly. Someone was actively working to undermine the Thieves Guild and the Black-Briars. Quickly pocketing the note, he knew that he would have to return this to Riften immediately.

* * *

**(AN: I did make Sabjorn a little less of an a-hole, but there is a reason for that. Crixus, like a lot of fans of the _Elder Scrolls_ games, have a romanticized vision of amoral groups such as the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood: they believe that they're Robin Hoods or Altair from _Assassin's Creed_, always doing what is right and just, only harming evil doers. Hypothetically, they would probably be more like the Mafia or the Manson family. Part of Crixus' story will be his realization that the real world isn't as grand as he would like to believe, and that maybe the groups he grew up idolizing don't always steal or kill "bad" people all the time.)**

**(The two elves were introduced because a] i haven't really had any substantial Bosmer characters in my stories so far and b] they are important to the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil. And no, don't do like my brother and say "oh, you're just a racist Nord for not having Bosmer in your story". I honestly didn't know what purpose a Bosmer character would serve other than just being a token wood elf.)**


	24. Rumors of War

**(AN: As this is Crixus' story, expect to see quite a bit of anti-Nord sentiment. But i cleverly was able to put in something else that i don't think a lot of people would do when taking up that subject: that thing was that those who decry 'racism' may in fact have a racist mindset as well. I'll let you see what i mean. I'm not going to ignore that part of the _Elder Scrolls_ lore, one which was established even in Kirkbride's magnum opus _Morrowind_, even though all my reviewers complain about it being there while at the same time enjoying the Altmer, the Dunmer and siding with the Empire [i shortened my little author's note rant because this chapter's focus isn't really that particular issue]. Of course, since we're also having what i promised somewhat in the last chapter, everyone's favorite character will make a cameo. Yay!)**

**(On a more sobering note, there are some rather gruesome war horrors mentioned later on in this chapter. You have been warned.)**

* * *

**Rumors of War**

Immediately, of course, was open to interpretation in Crixus' mind. It had been too long since he last saw Skjor and Kodlak. The one had been a young man a few years older than him, who had been like the older brother he had never had. The other, for how little he knew him, was a focused yet kind man who, despite everything they had witnessed in the war, never seemed to lose his faith in the Nine. Crixus longed to speak to him again, just to share a few words with him and ask him several questions that had been nagging on his mind ever since the War.

It was late when Crixus returned to Whiterun, passing up through the streets of the Plains District, then turning left at the market-square and climbing the incline up to the Wind District. There were plenty of guardsmen with torches and the moons were both out that night, giving him plenty of light to see the way. From there he turned right and walked up to the great hall of Jorrvaskr. Despite his respect for Skjor and Kodlak, Crixus could not help but admit how plain, Nordic and uncivilized it appeared. Its roof was a ship turned upside down with wooden walls built to support it. A poor man's barn, wholly incomparable to the Fighters' Guild hall in Mournhold.

Inside, he found it a hive of revelry. A long fire-pit stood in the center of the hall, around which long tables were arrayed. At the tables he saw mostly a horde of disheveled, drunken, foul-smelling Nords who looked like a pack of bandits. There was one with shoulder length blond hair who was bent over with a cup held to his lips and mead pouring out of his mouth: the whole Nord race personified to a tee. Most of them were the same type: a blond Nord woman with war-paint upon her face - or was it blood? - and arms that seemed too large for her unnaturally small body. Like a troll or one of the apes of Valenwood she appeared to Crixus. There were so many Nords that Crixus could neither tell them apart nor cared to even try: one Nord was no different to another, especially in Skyrim where they came by the dozen. The only one who stood out was a red-haired Dunmer, dressed strangely enough not in the traditional clothing of his people, but in hide armor typical of the adventurers and bandits local to Skyrim. Crixus wondered why he was here: Nords didn't seem to care about whether or not they were being exclusive, so it wasn't as though he was there to say 'We include all the races of Tamriel'. Surely it couldn't be about his own merits; he was, after all, a Dunmer. Nords didn't trust Dunmer and he wouldn't be up to the requirements of strength of the locals.

"There you are!" Crixus heard a familiar voice cry out.

Turning, he saw Skjor sitting at the head table to the north of the ship-hall. With him was a young woman whom Crixus was almost immediately taken aback by. She was wholly unlike the women he had seen in Skyrim thus far. Even by Colovian standards, she was very beautiful. She was red-haired, green-eyed and lithe, unlike the blond-haired, blue-eyed, big women he had seen thus far in Skyrim. Perhaps it was because of her gear, leather armor which served to only cover her front and loins, leaving her back and legs mostly exposed.

"Have a seat here at my left," Skjor said, gesturing to an empty seat at his left. Crixus sat therein. "Servius Crixus, may I introduce you to Aela the Huntress. She's one of our shield-kin here in Jorrvaskr, and no finer hunter you'll find anywhere in all of Tamriel."

"Are you here to join the Companions?" Aela asked Crixus.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I have more than enough on my plate without adding another guild I have to take orders from and follow their code."

"Skjor's told me quite a bit about you," Aela stated. "He said that you were a great archer."

"The finest in all of Tamriel," Crixus replied.

"That can't be true," Aela returned. "Because _I_ am the greatest archer in all of Tamriel."

Crixus chuckled. "Really? What was the last target you hit with your bow and arrow?"

"A frost troll," Aela stated.

"I hit a bee-hive with an arrow while moving on a lake," Crixus began. "Roughly fifty yards away."

"In the eye, during a late spring blizzard in the Pale," Aela clarified.

"Now now," Skjor interjected. "There's no need to be comparing scars just yet."

"So, where's Kodlak?" Crixus asked.

Crixus noticed that one of the two indiscernible Nords near their end of the table held their heads down while Aela returned to her goblet. Skjor, meanwhile, turned to Crixus and muttered.

"Kodlak never leaves the living quarters beneath the hall," he answered. "Call it personal reasons. He leaves the running of the hall and the Companions to me."

"So," Crixus asked. "What do you do here?"

"We fight for the people of Skyrim," Aela answered. "And for the greater honor of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions!"

"So you're like the Fighters Guild, then?" Crixus asked.

"We're not some band of Akaviri murderers!" Aela stated firmly. "We serve the people of Skyrim!"

"You're basically the Fighters Guild, then," Crixus continued. To his chagrin, this woman, though ravishingly beautiful, was just as short-tempered as every other Nord he had encountered. "A band of mercenaries who are loaned out by the local government to keep the peace, train fighters, protect trade and drive away wild beasts. That's exactly what the Fighters Guild does."

"How dare you insult the honor of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred!" Aela retorted.

Crixus scoffed. "The honor of a war-mongering chief who started a race war with merkind?"

"Skjor, how can you let him talk like this?" Aela asked.

"Am I not allowed to express my opinion here?" Crixus retorted.

"Please, Servius," Skjor returned. "May I have a word with you?"

"A word?"

"In private."

From the tone of Skjor's voice to the glare in his one, unscarred eye, Crixus knew that he had harsh words to say to him. Rather than beating around the bush or ignore the issue, he nodded and followed Skjor down to the southern end of the hall. There he saw a stairway leading into a basement made all of stone bricks. Skjor told the others to continue feasting while he and Crixus made their way down there. Crixus, being the first one down, saw that there were many rooms down here under the hall: this, he guessed, were the living quarters.

"Now," Skjor began, his tone restrained, as though he were trying to hold back a whirlwind. "Would you mind telling me what the fuck you're doing up there?"

"I'm sorry," Crixus retorted. "I thought this was the Empire, where free thought and free will were permitted."

"Do you have any idea how greatly you've insulted us? All of us?" Skjor asked.

"Insulted?" Crixus scoffed. "I spoke the truth about you! These 'Companions' are pretty much just the Fighters Guild, right?"

"There is no Fighters Guild in Skyrim," Skjor stated. "The Argonians and dark elves might have forgiven the Akaviri for what they did, but the Nords never will. And because of that, there will never be a Fighters Guild in Skyrim. We honor our ancestors by keeping alive the legacy of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions."

"The legacy of a mass-murderer," Crixus returned.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Skjor retorted. "This is my peoples' legacy! The legacy of all the children of Skyrim! I have nothing against the legacy of Cyrodiil or its people. Why must you do so with mine? Gods, you weren't like this during the War."

"I was young and naive," Crixus sighed. "And a coward back then, always afraid that if I spoke the truth, some arse-hole would break my neck. But that was a long time ago. I've stared down Dominion battle-mages, starvation in the depths of winter, Morag Tong assassins, trolls, Nords, the Dark Brotherhood: I fear nothing. I can say whatever I want, because now _I'm_ the arse-hole with a knife who can slit some other arse-hole's throat before they break my neck."

"At least keep it down while you're here," Skjor replied. "You're in the middle of Jorrvaskr, the hall of the Companions."

"If I were in Windhelm, standing before that little shite Ulfric Stormcloak," Crixus retorted. "I would still speak the truth."

Skjor sighed. "So that's it, then? You're with the Empire, are you? You've thrown in your lot with a few jarls and their petty squabbles, have you?"

"This isn't about some idiot jarls," Crixus retorted. "It's about the security of the Empire and her people! You fought in the War, you used to know about those things."

"I was never a fanatic like you," Skjor replied. "I was an idiot-boy who lacked direction, the Empire gave me that. After that, I learned that fighting was all that I was good at, so I joined the Companions. But I was never blind enough to trust that any leader is after anything more than gold."

"Not the Empire," Crixus said, staring Skjor down in the eye. "They're the only hope for reason and justice in a world of savage, ignorant and superstitious fools."

"And where do the Companions fit into your vision of Imperial reason and justice?" Skjor asked.

"They belong in the legends of the past," Crixus retorted. "Fun stories to tell your children at bedtime, but nothing more. I saw your number: there was only one Dunmer! You keep alive the prejudice of your so-called hero Ysgramor, more a conquering warlord."

"Do not stand here," Skjor returned, leveling a finger in Crixus' face. "Under the hull of Jorrvaskr and insult the honor of Ysgramor!"

"Skjor! What seems to be the problem?"

Both Skjor and Crixus turned to the one who had spoken. There they saw a grizzled old man with gray hair that was steadily going white. He was clad in the same steel armor emblazoned with the image of the wolf upon the breast-plate and with fur upon the arms, legs and a dire-wolf fur pelt upon the shoulders. He seemed even older than Crixus remembered Kodlak Whitemane: almost like an old wolf, having lived beyond its time but still fighting on against the end.

"Kodlak," Skjor greeted. "I'm sorry we disturbed you. There was a little matter of honor that we needed to clear up, Crixus and I."

"Servius Crixus?" Kodlak asked. He then walked over to them, his old eyes examining Crixus before him. At last he let out a merry chuckle.

"By the gods, it is you!" he smiled. "Oh, how I have wished to see you again." The old man turned to Skjor. "Now, what was the problem?"

"It's Crixus, sir," Skjor replied. "He dishonored Ysgramor and the Companions."

"Oh, a grave dishonor," Kodlak grumbled. "I must speak with him personally. Return to the feasting, Skjor. Return to your shield-brothers. Return to Aela." Crixus saw that the old man winked slightly, which brought a sly grin to Skjor's face as he walked back up the stairs to the main hall. Kodlak, meanwhile, turned to Crixus: there was no darkness or grimness in his face.

"Come with me, Servius," he said at last. "I have much to discuss with you."

"Wait, you're not mad with me?" Crixus asked. "Not after what I said about Ysgramor?"

"You're not one of the Companions yet, I take it," Kodlak replied. "You are still an outsider and not bound by our oaths of honor. For that, and because I wasn't listening to what you and Skjor were arguing about, I will pardon you. But if you choose to join the Companions..."

Crixus chuckled. "It's never going to happen. It's like I told you before the Battle of the Red Ring: fighting is good enough for the masses, but I want something where I can use my mind as well as my strength."

"Aye," Kodlak nodded. "And now this old man wants to speak to you. That is, of course, if the huddled masses are permitted to speak to an old war hero."

"I should be saying that about _you_, old man," Crixus returned. "You fought at the Battle of the Red Ring. You have as much right to be honored as well as the rest of us."

Kodlak sighed. "I am not deserving of honor."

"You fought for the glory of the Empire!" Crixus replied.

"I was a younger man, eager for battle," Kodlak stated. "I had no family, no loved ones, only the desire to fight until I could fight no more and join my ancestors in Sovngarde. You may have gone on to becoming the hero of the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, whereas I..." He scoffed.

"I was reduced to becoming a sellsword," he grumbled. "I made my way to Hammerfell, hoping to join Claxitus' legion, the one you left with after the Battle of the Red Ring, but...things happened and I was accused of murder. To escape death, I had to sell myself as a bodyguard to my accuser: a fat Redguard duke who earned his way through wealth and whispers rather than his steel. Thank the gods that he decided to visit King Istlod, or I would not have met the last Harbinger Askar, who offered me a family of my own."

"So you betrayed one master for another?" Crixus asked.

"You wouldn't understand," Kodlak grumbled. "You've always allowed yourself to become embroiled in the politics of Tamriel."

"I give a shite about what happens to the Empire," Crixus stated. "Because of that, I can't afford to be apathetic. Rather that than hide behind a false pretext of apolitical indifference while harboring traitors."

"I take it you've met Idolaf Battle-Born," Kodlak mused aloud. "By the gods, what has Clan Battle-Born come to these days! Once was it when _both_ of their houses, Grey-Mane and Battle-Born, sat beneath the hall of Jorrvaskr as brothers, first to the table to eat and drink, and the last to quit the field. Now...they too have become embroiled in politics! But neither Eorlund nor Vignar Grey-Mane use their place as Companions to further the agenda of the Stormcloaks. They are Companions first and foremost! I told Jarl Balgruuf that, I told Olfrid and Idolaf that, and that is what I tell you."

Crixus sighed. "Look, I didn't come here for a lecture about non-involvement. That won't get very far with me. I have other things to talk to you about..."

"So do I," Kodlak stated. "Now come, into my study. We should talk there."

Kodlak led Crixus down the stony hall to a room at the far end. Most of the rooms had their doors closed, but into those that didn't Crixus looked briefly. They were very bare and essential, some of them with a bunk-bed to house two sleepers to one room. At the far end of the hallway, the room here was larger than the others, with a small table and a few chairs about it. Kodlak pulled a chair up for Crixus, then sat down in one across from him.

"So now," Crixus said. "You have me here, what do you want to talk to me about?"

Kodlak sighed. "I have been having a dream every night for years months...of a personal nature. Since you're not one of us, I...I can't reveal all of it to you now. But there was someone in that dream, someone who would do something very important. My thoughts went to you at first, but the face was not yours."

"So?" Crixus asked. "What do I have to do with some nobody who isn't even me?"

"I just want your word, though, Servius Crixus," Kodlak replied. "That whatever happens to me, you will not try to avenge my death."

"Death?" Crixus asked.

"Aye," Kodlak grumbled. "It tends to happen to people when they get to be about my age, you know."

"I know," Crixus rolled his eyes. "But...you speak as if you were awaiting the time of your death."

"You know me, Servius," Kodlak stated. "Even in the war, my faith in the Nine never faltered. The Empire might have outlawed Talos, but not Shor. And I will fight to enter Shor's Hall of Valor. I do not want my death to be celebrated by vengeance. I have lived a long life, and I am more than willing to accept death, when the time comes."

"Knowing me," Crixus replied. "I'd probably be busy killing people at the time." He sighed. "Yes, I'll not avenge you."

"Good," Kodlak nodded. "You make an old man proud. Now, what is it you want to discuss?"

Crixus sighed, trying hard to keep back tears from his eyes. All that had happened ever since Great War and that fateful time in Hammerfell, following General Claxitus from the Imperial City to the sands of Hammerfell and then into Llywyn Pass, between the Druadach and Wrothgarian Mountains, weighed heavily upon his mind. He had nobody to talk with, for the women in his life were only there for a quick night of pleasure and Pectis wasn't much for candid talk from the heart. But Kodlak, who had fought alongside Crixus and saw with his own eyes the horrors the Dominion had brought down upon the people of the Imperial City, he was the perfect one to whom he could open his mind.

"You know I wasn't exactly a religious man when you met me during the War," Crixus began, which brought a silent nod from Kodlak. "All the shite I had seen: Bravil, Chorrol, the Red Ring, the Red Dog Pass. I...I just can't believe that the Nine would allow this. So much death. Whole homes devastated, bodies flayed and tortured, hung up from the walls of the Imperial City, women raped with spears, newborn infants burned alive to heat the camp-fires of the Dominion soldiers. Even when we were victorious, we gave no quarter to the Dominion. Well, most generals did, but Claxitus didn't.

"I've been asking myself one question, for the twenty years I've been at Mournhold: why? Why did they allow this to happen, to us and to them? Was it because of the Amulet of Kings being broken? Martin did it to save all of mankind, and if that's reason enough to forsake us, then the gods don't deserve my worship. I mean, they could have done something, right? Anything! Stir up a storm in the Topal Bay to drive their ships out, set fire to their armies before they destroyed the Imperial City, stopped them from causing so much death and destruction! Why did they do nothing? Where were the gods during the War? And don't you tell me that they had a grand scheme or something, because that much death and destruction being all part of some greater plan is selfish and-and cruel!

"I admit that there were times when I was on death's door, such as during the Siege of Bravil when I was still young and inexperienced, when I prayed to all the gods to save my life. But after the battle ended, I realized that it wasn't the gods who saved me, it was my own damn strength, and giving them honor for _my_ strength was unfair to me! What's worse, I had to watch brave men die in agony, hold their hands as they prayed to the gods and bade their families farewell. It...fuck! It broke my hear to hear them spill out everything to me! I kept wanting to say to them, 'Save your prayers. The gods have done nothing for us this far. Perhaps there are no gods at all?'" Crixus reached up and rubbed his temples, then continued.

"And then I met you. You saw everything I saw, especially after the Battle of the Red Ring. Yet you never gave up hope. How? How could someone...how could _anyone_ keep holding onto the notion of the gods after seeing such ruthless, reckless carnage?"

Kodlak cleared his throat, and then began. "I do not pretend to be a priest or knowledgeable about the gods, but I will speak for myself. As as a young man, Askar was like a father to me. When he died and I became Harbinger, I became father to all those who call this mead hall home. I have had to learn much in my years here in Jorrvaskr. But there is one important lesson that I had to learn very early on. A good parent must know when to protect their child and when to let them grow."

"We're not talking about parents and children," Crixus groaned. "We're talking about blind, deaf and dumb gods!"

"Hear me out, please," Kodlak continued. "Now listen, if you were a father, what would you do to your child? Would you hold their hand in every trouble, every doubtful moment, every danger, or would you let them learn to stand on their own two feet?"

"I would hold their hand in the most difficult places, where I knew they had no power or control," Crixus replied. "And when I believed they were ready, I would let them learn."

"The elves believe they are the children of the gods," Kodlak stated. "While we can't hope for so great a divine relation as that, it holds true for us as well. As our creators, the gods hold ultimate power over us. They could solve every trouble, clarify every doubtful moment and protect us from every danger, whether great or small. But where would that leave us?"

"In a better world," Crixus replied. "Everything would be right and there would be no worries or problems."

"Everything would be right?" Kodlak asked. "But there would be nothing to strive for, nothing to work forward to, since it would all be handed to us. The farmer would not learn to make use of the land, for the gods would put food on his table without the need to work. The warrior would not fight as the gods would make him the strongest man in Tamriel or give him all the money and women he desires. The wise man would not study as all secrets would be known to him. Methinks the gods _want_ us to solve our own problems: the harvest would be greater for the work, the mead sweeter and the women warmer for the strife of conflict and the secrets known greater for the study put into them."

"But war?" Crixus asked, his voice vehement and powerful. "I mean, it would be one thing if we were victorious but..." He sighed, his breath coming in ragged heaves. "...but after the Great War, when all was said and done and they..."

"Go on," Kodlak said.

Crixus turned to Kodlak, in his eyes the emptiness of a broken man. A single tear slid down his grimy face, unable to be assuaged any further. When Crixus finally spoke, he spoke with a death-like fatalism, as if he were finally coming to grips with something that he himself had debated and argued and weighed long in the silence of his mind through many years.

"...they all died for nothing," he continued. "We won the battle, but we lost the war. Every death was meaningless because the Dominion got its way in the end, over a mountain of corpses. From the newborn ripped from its mother's womb, completely unaware of those gold-faced bastards throwing it into the furnace, to the idiot Nord Legionnaire begging for a welcome in Sovngarde as he bleeds to death on the battlefield: they all died for nothing. What god would allow all that to happen?"

There was a lengthy silence between the two old war dogs. A silent understanding of what had happened and a moment of silence as well for all those who died.

"Like I said," Kodlak said at last. "I am not a priest, and I don't know all the answers. Perhaps you have to find answers of your own for the questions you have, ones that go beyond the ken of Kodlak Whitemane. But there is something else that I know of, something that has kept my belief strong even when all proof seemed in vain."

"And what was that?"

"Faith," Kodlak began. "We live in a world where there are many great and wondrous things. Even what you said about Martin and the Hero of Kvatch of old. Anyone can see the monument in the Imperial City: even the Altmer couldn't destroy it during the war. _That_ is evidence of a great deed, one in the faith that if done, it would mean more than merely the breaking of an amulet. If we can believe in the many great and fantastical things that happen in our world on a daily basis, then it is no great thing to believe that the gods, no matter how far away they may appear, are always with us."

"Do you really believe that?" Crixus asked.

"Of course," Kodlak replied.

"It..." Crixus muttered, shaking his head. "It's not enough."

"Well, as I said, that is merely what I believe," Kodlak replied. "You must find your own foundation. For the present, you are welcomed to stay here at Jorrvaskr for as long as you desire. Though, I must insist that you do not bring your politics among us. We are not privy to either side of this civil war, and I intend to respect the traditions of the Harbinger of the Companions by remaining neutral."

Crixus nodded.

"Although," Kodlak added. "The way rumors spread in Skyrim, you're bound to hear something about the war, even in Jorrvaskr."

* * *

Crixus slept in the mead hall in a corner by himself. There was no one else in the hall save for the blond man who was passed out drunk and snoring like a lumber-mill sawing logs. It was to this all-too unpleasant sound that Crixus finally drifted into an uneasy slumber. His sleep was disturbed by memories of the Battle of the Red Ring, images of dead bodies, piles of tiny skulls, blackened with fire, the streets painted black with dry-rotted blood drifted eerily through his subconsciousness. He called for more wine, but never rose from slumber that night.

When at last the day came, he awoke wearily in the middle of some conversation. Apparently the morning had passed quickly and the hall was empty, save for an old woman with a broom sweeping up after the mess that had been made in the hall.

"Where is everyone?" he groaned.

"In the training courtyard out back," the old woman answered. "Skjor is taking on a new recruit."

Crixus groaned, then pushed himself up and walked towards the doors at the eastern side of the hall. Pushing them open, he found a expansive courtyard outside. It lay between Jorrvaskr and the city walls, with a large stone shelf to the left, which rose up in the shape of some colossal bird. In that courtyard, he saw the Companions sparring with each other, or watching as a young Nibenese woman with an axe and a shield fought the two Nords who looked alike: but didn't they all, in Crixus' mind, look the same? Skjor was watching the progress, barking out advice here and there to the young woman whom he assumed was their newest recruit.

"That's enough for now," Skjor said to the two men. They backed away and he approached the young woman. "You've done well, Ria. Tonight there'll be an official ceremony welcoming you into the Companions."

"Thank you, Master Skjor," the young woman returned.

"Don't call me master," Skjor replied. "We're all brothers of the shield under Jorrvaskr."

Young Ria then departed to the Dunmer and one of the other Nord women in the Companions, which one though Crixus could not discern. He then made his way up to Skjor and addressed him.

"My apologies about last night," he said. "I hope this doesn't come between us. I haven't really the luxury of friends these days, it would be a shame to lose you as well."

"You have your battles to fight, Crixus," Skjor nodded. "And I have the Companions to look after. It seems we both have problems of our own that might cause us to butt heads at times."

"Perhaps I should make myself scarce, then?" Crixus asked. "Wouldn't want to be starting fights now, do I?"

Skjor chuckled. "I forget how young you are."

"I'm not as young as I look, you know," Crixus stated. "Less than five years your age."

"What daedra have you been warming up to?" Skjor laughed. Crixus laughed, but it was slightly uneasy. "Still, despite how old you may be, you still act very young and rash. You haven't got the restraint of old age like Kodlak."

"Or maybe I just don't give a shite?" Crixus replied.

"Still," Skjor continued. "That attitude is going to get yourself killed one of these days, especially if you plan on staying in Skyrim for any long periods of time. You can't go about insulting any Nord that crosses your path."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "If they act like shite, I will treat them like shite. No half-measures or fallacies for me."

"You see?" Skjor replied. "That straight-forward attitude is a good one, but it's misdirected."

"Look, I don't want to join your little Fighters Guild knock-off," Crixus stated. "I had my training aplenty during the War."

Skjor nodded. "Well then, I wish you well on whatever fate brings your way. Stay as long as you like, you're always welcome here."

Crixus nodded, then Skjor delivered half of the Imperial Legionnaire salute: a firm pounding of his right-fist upon his left breast. The old Nord walked away while Crixus mused on what he would do next. He had to deliver what he had uncovered at the Honningbrew meadery to Maven Black-Briar in Riften swiftly, and there was also that tantalizing invitation, sitting at the back of his mind. Furthermore, he was still a member of the Imperial Legion and they had more than enough, he knew, for him to do.

Then, as if fate had stepped in to show Crixus the way, he overheard the young Imperial woman talking with the Dunmer and the Nord: their conversation turned towards the Civil War.

"It's not easy traveling the roads in Skyrim these days," she stated. "What with the War and all."

"It's not easy wooking through Skyrim in times o' peace!" the Dunmer added in his Ashlander drawl.

"I had to spend almost a month waiting for a writ of passage just to cross the border," the young Nibenese woman stated.

"This damn war is tykin' its toll on everyone," the Dunmer commented.

"At least it might soon be over," the Nord added in a harsh voice. "Rumor has it the Stormcloaks have taken Fort Dunstad to the north of here in the Pale."

"Why would thigh be miking for Dunstad?" asked the Dunmer. "Isn't Whiterun the center of ool Skyrim?"

"My guess is the rebels want to put pressure on Whiterun," said the Nord. "Take the fort and Whiterun is cut off from much meaningful support from the north. That way, maybe they'll have this city first."

"I just hope they don't prove to be a bother for any of us," the Nibenese woman stated.

"They won't be," the Dunmer stated. "Not wuth Skjor as our leaduh."

"You assume too much, Athis," the Nord returned with a disapproving sneer. "You assume too much."

"Please, Njada," the Dunmer Athis returned. "Not another fauit, not todie!"

"Why not?" Njada asked. "Are you too weak to challenge me?"

The Dunmer and the Nord then began brawling right there in the courtyard, while Crixus made his clandestine escape. There was no reason for him to remain in Whiterun anymore: he knew what he had to do now.

* * *

**(AN: Bleh, I've noticed that i often confused the Druadach and Wrothgarian Mountains with each other. I feel so stupid! Now i've got to go back and fix that, along with _many_ other things. Also, i did get lazy and use "Imperial", "Nibenese" and "Colovian" kind of interchangeably.)**

**(When i started _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, I wanted to do a fun and fantastical sword-and-sorcery adventure story, one where the good guy wins, gets the girl, evil is defeated and all the wrongs of the world are righted. As i delved further into the _Elder Scrolls_ lore, i found that to be more complicated than i initially believed. But for this story, i intend to go for a darker, more serious tone. Crixus' personal crises are a big part of the story, since those will show us why he behaved the way he did in those previous stories. So yes, a lot of heavy material will be in this story.)**

**(I kind of liked writing this chapter, aside from the obvious fan-service for Aela; it felt very natural and easy-flowing, especially the exchanges between Skjor and Crixus. Rather than just having it out because they're both strongly opinionated, like with Eirik and Crixus, it seemed a lot more like Messala and Judah from _Ben-Hur_, old friends who are now at odds with each other over their politics or lack thereof.)**


	25. The Road to War

**(AN: Yes, this title is VERY creative. Enjoy)**

* * *

**The Road to War  
**

The military had changed Servius Crixus from the brash, trouble-making young boy into a hard, loyal and duty-bound soldier. But there were some things that even the rigors of camp training and the horrors of war could not fully erase, even for one of forty-five years. The infamous Battle of the Red Dog Pass had left an indelible mark on Crixus' self-esteem and confidence in his ability to command. He had been thrust command at the last minute, and more men of Claxitus' legion fell during that one long, cold week of battle than had during five years under General Claxitus. Each slain man was a failure on his part as a leader, and with so many failures up against him, Crixus feared that being in charge was something for which he was not cut out.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he galloped north on a horse towards Solitude. It had been a while since he last reported in and if the rumors of troop movement at Fort Dunstad was true, he would have to perform his duty to the Empire. He only wished that General Tullius would look kindly upon him and give him a lower rank: maybe a cavalry soldier or a scout. He could ride and his archery skills were second to none, despite what Aela the Huntress might have said.

Two days were nothing for the stout-hearted Servius Crixus, who had traveled this way before. Now he went swiftly upon the plains of Whiterun without fear: most of the people there were too smart to be housing any spies beyond that crazy spiritual man and the way to Solitude via the plains was faster than going through Hjaalmarch. The first day he encountered a pack of wolves in the plains to the north-west of the city of Whiterun. They nipped at the legs of his horse, but after a few arrows and felling two, they backed off. Though the horse escaped with nothing more than a few scratches on its legs, Crixus did not want to lose his horse from another attack, especially at night. When dusk came, he found a shallow cave in the mountains to the north, tied up his horse to an old stump just outside, then went to sleep.

There were no wolf-howls all that night. If Crixus were still as faithful as he had been in his youth before the War, he would have thanked the Eight for keeping the wolves away the rest of that night. When morning came at last, he heard the gentle snorting of his horse: another thing he would have thanked them for. But he also heard another sound nearby, something loud, like the bellowing of a trumpet. He had heard rumors of elephants, mighty creatures living in the jungles, forests and savannahs of Hammerfell; with thick, leathery skin, four legs like tree trunks, a snake-like nose, ears like two wide sails and massive tusks sprouting from their mouths. He had never had the privilege of seeing one, though those in Claxitus' Legion who had seen them told him about the sound they made: loud trumpeting fanfares as their heavy feet shook the ground.

Looking out the entrance of his cave, Crixus saw in the distance a sight that would stay with him for the rest of his days. Under the sun, rising high above the Velthoi Mountains to the east, he saw something that must surely have been an elephant, but seemed to even belie the rumors he had heard. Standing almost twelve feet tall at the shoulders, these elephants did not have wide, sail-like ears nor thick leathery skin: the ears seemed rather small, relative to its massive size, and they were all of them covered in thick coats of reddish brown hair. There must have been at least five of them, with two being rather smaller and, Crixus assumed, young. But what was even more fascinating, apart from these massive yet peaceful moving mountains, was the fact that they seemed to be like cattle being led to graze. Their shepherds Crixus saw walked alongside them, two man-like figures that were almost as tall as the beasts they were tending. Even at that distance, Crixus knew what those shepherds, clad in loin-cloths and skirts of animal skins and carrying weapons made out of large bones, could possibly be.

He had heard the legends of the giants of Skyrim. Along with the Snow Elves and the glacial tribes, they were among the first peoples living in Tamriel when the Dwemer first appeared: they were in fact the ones that called them 'Dwarves', which name stuck with the Dwemer even among the other races with whom the Deep Elves stood more or less equally as far as height. Despite most of the stories about war between the Nords and the giants, the very best evidence indicated that the giants were nothing more than itinerant hermits, tending the herds of mammoths across the tundra of Skyrim. It was even said that the giants had a semblance of intelligence, leaving some scholars to ponder if the giants were descended from mer rather than men.

Here were the giants, and those hairy elephants Crixus concluded were their mammoths. So great a sight was the herd, the hairy mammoth coats glistening golden-brown in the light of dawn, that Crixus had to admit, without stipulation or exception, this was the one moment in his time in Skyrim where he saw no danger, only beauty.

The rest of his journey was not so fortunate. A bright, sunny morning was quickly replaced with rain clouds which brought a storm down upon the plains of Whiterun. Crixus galloped north-west as hard as he could, trying to keep the rain out of his eyes. Nevertheless, the rain pouring down made progress slow. It was late afternoon, finally, when Crixus left the hold of Whiterun and was making his way towards the Karth River. Though he had lost some hours in the storm, he was determined to reach Dragon Bridge, the town on the banks of the Karth River guarding the only road into Haafingar hold, before nightfall.

* * *

As it was, night fell before Crixus arrived in Dragon Bridge, forcing him to spend the night at the Four Shields Tavern. In the morning he arose bright and early, paid for his room and sped off towards Solitude. He arrived in good time, getting there before another rain-storm broke upon the city from out of the sky. Despite the rain, Crixus returned to Proudspire Manor, the manor-house Elisif had given him, and went for his armor and uniform. He would be doing battle again in the name of the Empire soon, and he had to get his orders while in uniform. He got dressed by himself, not caring whether or not that foolish Nord girl Jordis was still here or not. He had to do the business of grown men and had no time for her foolishness.

Once suited up, he ran the rest of the way through the rain to Castle Dour. The courtyard was deserted, but when they saw his uniform, the guards let him into the keep. He was not soaked, but wet enough to be uncomfortable. After shaking his head and adjusting his sword upon his sheath, he walked into the war room, where General Tullius and Legate Rikke were waiting.

"Servius Crixus reporting for duty, sir," he announced, saluting proudly.

"Oh, you're back," the general returned. "Just in time. We're marching on Fort Dunstad." _So the rumors were true,_ Crixus mused. "I would have sent you a message, but, since you were last sent into enemy territory, it wouldn't be wise to do so. But now that you're here, I'm sending you to the battle."

"At last," Crixus said with a smile. "What are my orders?"

"The legate will fill you in," General Tullius replied, gesturing to the young Nord woman as he left the room. Legate Rikke, meanwhile, called Crixus over to the table, where a large map of Skyrim lay upon the wood. She was pointing to something in the southern Pale, in between two large mountain ranges.

"Dunstad was an old Imperial fort built during the time of the Septims," she began. "It used to guard the mouth of Heljarchen Valley, but was abandoned during the Oblivion Crisis. According to our...scouts in Dawnstar and Whiterun, there used to be bandits in that area. Now the rebels are moving to take that hold."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"If the rebels take it," Rikke continued. "They will be able to prevent our troops from defending Whiterun from the north. Ulfric's tightening the noose; he's preparing for the attack on Whiterun. We cannot let the rebels reinforce Fort Dunstad."

"Why not just burn the fort to the ground?" Crixus asked. "Don't we have any battle-mages in the Imperial Legion?"

"Taking Fort Dunstad will prevent Dawnstar from posing any real threat in the region," explained the legate. "At best, they would have to suffer a long march through the marshes north-east of Morthal, and I don't think even Ulfric is dumb enough to try that. Skald the Elder might be, but Ulfric is most certainly not that dumb."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, where do I go next?"

"We're sending a detachment to our camp in Hjaalmarch," she stated. "That will be our staging ground for the attack. I'll be leading the assault and you'll be going with me."

"You?" Crixus scoffed. "You're a woman!"

"I'm a Nord," Rikke stated through clenched teeth.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Crixus chuckled. "Haven't you noticed that there aren't that many women in the Legion? There's a reason for that, don't you think?"

"Just what are you implying, soldier?" she asked.

"Nothing," Crixus replied. "I'm only telling you that maybe war isn't your place."

"And what is my place?" she retorted. "On my knees before you, your long-sword in my mouth? We Nords live for battle, and my experience and skill in battle are second to none."

"Really?" Crixus asked, a lookf of condescension in his voice. "Aren't you just some liaison for General Tullius? You don't have any place in battle."

"I am a soldier!" Rikke barked. "I do as I am told, and the General told me to join the assault. I think he can go a few days without me. We leave as soon as the rain subsides. I suggest you not be late."

Crixus grumbled, but could find no hole in her argument. He also was a soldier, who did what his orders were without question. If General Tullius told Legate Rikke to fight, then he would have to deal with that, no matter how much he didn't like it. Saluting the legate, he made his way towards the doors of the castle when there appeared a crimson-clad Solitude guard, pouring water out of his helmet as he stood in the open door, flanked by the two gate guards.

"Servius Crixus," the guard greeted. "I have a message for you from the Jarl. She says it's urgent." He produced a letter which, by the look of the parchment, was rather new, despite being slightly damp from the storm outside. Crixus took the letter and opened it.

_Dear Servius Crixus,_

_The General informs me that you will be going with the Legion to battle with the Stormcloak rebels. To ensure that you return safely, I am ordering you to take Jordis the Sword-Maiden with you into battle. Have the quartermaster in Castle Dour outfit her with a uniform, but she is your bodyguard and huscarl. She _must _go with you._

_I wish you godspeed and pray for your safe return._

_Elisif Oyvidsdottir, Jarl of Solitude_

Crixus groaned in frustration once again. He was being ordered to do as he would rather not. There was no need for a housecarl to accompany him: Jordis was window dressing and she would only slow him down. But, like as not, he was still a soldier. He carried out his orders whether he liked them or not without question. If the Jarl insisted that he take the window dressing with him, he would take the window dressing with him.

_Hopefully_, he mused. _Those damn Nords will tear her to pieces in the thick of battle._

* * *

**(AN: Another "travel" chapter, but with some pretty images with giants and mammoths. ****I don't know what to say about the reviews, though. I'm glad that somebody's reading the story, but yeah, from what i remember of _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, i can honestly say that nobody really cared about Eirik except for me. I mean, why should anyone care about him? He's a Nord [and yet you call me racist?], he supports his people, he believes in something other than himself and he's not "interesting" enough. So yeah, what does it matter?)**


	26. The Battle of Fort Dunstad

**(AN: I finished that last chapter without any cursing: i did make a sexual reference, but there was no cursing, didn't even give a damn! [lol, pun intentional].)**

**(Now comes the inevitable battle chapters [ugh]. I think, as far as my experience goes so far, i can be verbose with the descriptions when i feel like it, but dialogue seems to be something that i'm more keen on doing. But, as this is war, and people have complained that there isn't enough war in _Skyrim_ and we only had a few battles in the last two stories, there will be more battles in this story.)**

* * *

**The Battle of Fort Dunstad**

The twelfth day of Rain's Hand. A host of the Imperial army descended the plateau upon which Solitude was built, crossed the Karth River at Dragon Bridge, and made a steady bee-line south-east, towards Fort Snowhawk. This was an old fort, which the Legion had recovered in the early months of the war: it served as a way post guarding the road from Morthal to Dragon Bridge. Their mission was to march south-east towards that fort, halting momentarily to gather forces and rest for the night, then continue on towards the main camp. Marching was slow, especially with a host of three hundred from Solitude, but there were no delays or resistance. If all went well, they should be in the Imperial camp in Hjaalmarch by tomorrow, with the rest of the day and night to rest, plain their battle strategy and be ready to attack first thing in the morning.

That was the plan as Servius Crixus had been relayed. He was now riding alongside Legate Rikke, serving as her lieutenant. Though she was only a mere thirty years old and hardly old enough to have fought in the war, she seemed to carry herself with the same dignity and poise as all the other commanders, legates, generals and auxiliaries whom Crixus had met during his time in the Legion. Even so, he had not yet seen her in battle and was not entirely sure she would be able to fight: thus far he had only seen her as a cultural adviser, informing General Tullius of what the Nord people were like. If she could fight...

And then there was Jordis, riding at Crixus' left, clad in the Imperial armor just the same as he was. She seemed like such a mockery to that uniform, an inexperienced child playing dress-up. Whereas the legate had the gravity that made her wearing the Imperial armor feel as though she was a proud member of the Legion, here it just seemed like a little child wearing her father's war armor. Crixus could not keep his eyes upon her for any length of time without laughter.

That night they rested at Fort Snowhawk, and the garrison commander gave one hundred troops to their force. Crixus spent much of his time alone, trying to think back to the last time he had fought in the Legion. It had been over twenty years since the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, and he remembered those five years after the Great War officially ended to a tee. The 9th Legion under Justinian Claxitus had chosen to fight on, even after the White-Gold Concordant ended the war and severed relations between Hammerfell and the Empire. Many in Hammerfell saw them to be heroes as they marched their troops across the desert for five years, openly defying the White-Gold Concordant as General Claxitus refused to back down. Once, about three years into the little odyssey, Crixus confronted the general about his behavior. Even after twenty years, his words still rang in Crixus' ears.

"If you'd like to leave," he had told him. "You can leave right now. But what I'm doing is what is necessary for the Empire to survive. We won't win by capitulating, only by driving those elvish bastards back across the sea where they came from, making them pay in blood for every foot of land and every man, woman and child we lost during the war. Half-measures will only play into their hands, that's why if we want victory, we have to go all the way."

* * *

Before dawn the company marched on again, following the road east towards the snowy northern slopes of the Stonehill mountain range. While not as mighty as the Jerall Mountains, nor as hardy as the mountains north of Windhelm, nor as lofty as the Throat of the World, the Stonehill mountains had their own legends, as Crixus had overheard from the Nords in the army while resting at Snowhawk Fort. To the south was Eldersblood Peak, while in the center of the range was Skyborn Mountain, the highest point. The ruins of the ancient Atmoran city of Bromjunaar, called locally Labyrinthinian, were located in the crest between Skyborn Mountain and Eldersblood Peak. To the east, it was said that, aside from giants in the hills and vampires in the caves, on summer days when the snows were lighter and the mountain passes more passable, one might see an ancient Dwemer tower poking its brass head out of the snow: this was the Tower of Mzark, another one of the lost relics of that ancient elvish race that had ruled a subterranean kingdom from Hammerfell to Morrowind.

But there was no time to explore Labyrinthinian, the mage's labyrinth built over the ruins of Bromjunaar and the lost Valkygg, nor to gaze upon the Dwemer tower. Crixus marched with the others, keeping his eyes forward. They would arrive at the Hjaalmarch camp about midday and there was still much to accomplish.

The arrival at the damp, marsh-bound Imperial camp was mirthless to say the least. Trudging through snows and swamps had put the edge on the troops, but Crixus noted that there were also several nervous whispers between some of the soldiers. He noted specifically that the Nords were the ones doing most of the whispering. They were a liability, he realized. Unlike the Great War, they were fighting their own brothers and cousins, nephews and fathers, who were on the side of the rebels. Far better it would have been if General Tullius did not recruits locals and only chose Colovians, Nibenese and Bretons for the Legion, trust-worthy and loyal citizens who had no stake in the petty politics of the local war-mongering earls.

He stood with Jordis at his left-hand side, with him were Legate Rikke and Taurinus Duilis, Legate of the Hjaalmarch Imperial garrison. They were all gazing south-east, towards the snowy mouth of Heljarchen Valley. Crixus had been up that way once on his haphazard attempt to reach Solitude via the Pale, and he knew the way. Now he would be returning thither, with an army all around him, ready to conquer in the name of the Empire.

"...and then we'll have your advance cohort strike the gate," the beet-faced Taurinus said to Rikke. "While my men provide you with support from the south. Divided, the rebels will be no match for us."

"Yes, Legate," Rikke nodded.

While they were thus waiting, Crixus saw two Nords in Imperial regalia approach Legate Rikke. One had a grim expression on his face, while his larger counterpart seemed almost hunched over with trepidation.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Me and some of the others," the large one began. "Well, we was just worryin' 'bout the fight ahead of us. We ain't exactly prepared for it, you know what I mean?"

"No," Rikke replied. "You have the best training any soldier in the Empire could ask for. This is what you've been waiting for, to do your sacred duty to the Empire and her people. A little rain, snow or bogs won't stop us."

"It-It ain't rain, nor bogs or snows what m-makes the men a'feared," the large Nord stammered. "We just ain't so k-keen 'bout..."

"About killing our own people, Legate," the grim-faced Nord interjected angrily.

"We do this for the good of Skyrim and her people, soldier," Rikke told them. "Never forget that." She turned away, as if she had made her point and was now done talking.

"Killing our brothers and sisters is for the good of Skyrim, Legate?" asked the grim-faced Nord.

"You watch your tongue, soldier," Rikke turned about, her words low and threatening. "Those are treacherous words."

"I ain't a traitor!" bawled the large Nord, which made Crixus smirk and bite his lip to keep from bursting out in laughter.

"That's the truth of it, though," the grim-faced soldier stated. "We train our asses off, walk through miles of mud and snow and for what? To kill the folk we grew up with, ate with, slept with, went to chapel together with..."

"That's treason, soldier!" Rikke barked.

"It's the truth!" he returned. "You want us to kill our brothers and sisters? How is that for the good of Skyrim?"

"I'll have your number for inciting rebellion!" she shouted. She then called out for a soldier to take the grim-faced Nord away and put him under arrest. The large one, however, she seized by the ear and dragged towards where a group of Nord soldiers were gazing upon them, stirred by the shouting they had heard from the Legate.

"Listen to me, all of you," she began. "Some of you, I know, have family on the other side. Fathers, brothers, nephews, cousins, nieces, sisters, daughters. Perhaps you're afraid that you'll see some of them during the battle tomorrow. But those who stand before us, wearing the blue tabard and bearing the mark of the bear are not your brothers, they are not your fathers, they are not related to you in any way. They are rebels: they will kill you, deface your corpse and laugh about it to their fellow rebels. Does that sound like your fathers to you? Would your brothers do that to you or your kin?

"The Stormcloaks are not your kin, they are the enemy: ignorant fools who have blindly put their faith in a traitor and a pretender. They claim that justice is on their side, but we are the Empire! The Empire does no wrong and by opposing us, _they_ are the ones who are unjust, _they_ are the ones who are the disease in our beautiful realm. If your arm is diseased, you don't coddle it out of some misguided attachment to it, allowing the sickness to fester and spread: you cut off the weak limb!

"Now I want you to take a look at the man to your right and to your left, the one wearing proudly the colors of true justice, the colors of the Empire, of our righteous cause. _That_ man has your back. _That_ man will avenge you if you fall. _That_ man is your fellow legionnaire and _that_ man is your kin! Fight for _that_ kin, for you have none other!" She then pounded her breastplate with her right fist, then extended her arm out before her.

"For the Empire!" she cried out.

All the soldiers suddenly gave out one loud cry of "**For the Empire!**", taking up her salute. Again she shouted and saluted, and again they took up the refrain. A third time, and now Crixus was proudly pounding his fist upon his breastplate and raising his right arm out in front of him, palm extended. It did not matter to him if Valerius Crixus and Sedris Ulver had been slain by the hosts which swept through Anvil during the War.

The Legion was Crixus' family.

* * *

The fourteenth day of Rain's Hand, the day of battle. Crixus rose early, girding himself in his armor, placing his bow upon his back and his gladius in his sheath. Jordis, despite being window dressing, was battle-clad and armed by the time he was ready. The others were now up and ready, making their way into the formations. Crixus, meanwhile, was reassigned by Legate Rikke during their stay at the Hjaalmarch camp. He was to make the first assault, striking indiscriminate targets along the wall, giving cover for the two hosts of the army: Taurinus as he circled around to the south and Rikke as she attacked the north gate.

Crixus was sneaking through knee deep snow in a clump of trees, keeping his eyes trained on the weakest part of the fortress, a palisade wall that had been erected lately by the last inhabitants of the fort. Even Nords could hold the western wall, made entirely of stone that had not fallen down since the fort's disuse. Striking at the weakest point, however, would make the assault easier.

"I don't get this, my thane," he heard Jordis speak.

"Shh!" he hissed. "Dammit, girl, any louder and they'll hear us!"

"Don't call me a girl!" Jordis whispered. "I'm of age!"

"What is it?" he groaned.

"Why are we here instead of with the main army?" she asked.

"You can go with the main army all you want," he returned. "In fact, why don't you do just that and get out of my way?"

"You know I can't leave your side," she replied. "Not until the battle is over. You read the Jarl's letter."

"Don't remind me," Crixus groaned. "Just follow my lead and don't deviate from it at all and you might just survive."

Hiding behind an old pine, Crixus pulled out two arrows from his quiver. One went into his mouth, the shaft held between his teeth, while the other he kept in his hand while he reached for his Colovian re-curve bow. Fitting the second arrow into the string, he pulled back, aiming for the neck of one of the Stormcloak patrols on the wall. With a relaxing exhale through his nose, he let the arrow fly from the string. The rebel on the wall fell with a satisfying groan of agony as Crixus quickly started stepping through the deep snow and trees. The enemy could not get a beat on him, not when the army was counting on him to keep the patrols on the walls on their toes for the main attack. Jordis followed on behind him.

Halfway to his next vantage point, Crixus had already removed the next arrow from between his teeth and fitted it into the string. Another shot and another rebel fell off the wall. Again Crixus moved, circling around the wooden wall on the eastern side of the fort towards the gate, hiding behind a stump. This time he saw two guards up on the gatehouse. Taking out one at a time would not do, especially if Jordis decided that she was needed and went charging towards the gate. Drawing two arrows from his quiver, Crixus aimed slightly upwards, turned the bow parallel to the ground, then fitted both arrows in the string and sent them singing from his bow. It was a long shot, but both rebel soldiers fell dead.

"Damn, I'm good!" Crixus muttered to himself.

Again Crixus ran, this time leaping behind a rather large tree as an arrow came swiftly down after him, sticking fast into the thick, powdery white snow. Behind him came Jordis, her shield held up as more arrows came flying after her as she followed Crixus behind the large tree.

"You want to help?" Crixus asked as he began pulling arrows out of his quiver.

"Uh-huh," Jordis nodded.

"Hold these for me," he handed her three arrows as he set one between his teeth and another into the bowstring.

He peered out from the side of his hiding place and sent an arrow whistling through the air, striking down one of the many archers who were now taking their place on top of the tower. Arrows began falling dangerously close to them, on either side of the tree and a few sticking fast into the trunk directly behind them. As Crixus pulled the second arrow out from his mouth, one skipped off the rounded side of the tree and went spiraling into the snow at Crixus' right. He was about to lean out when suddenly he was pushed aside and he could hear dull thumps as Jordis stepped between him and the opening, her shield held in place. Arrows struck the shield, and she stepped back as more began striking close to her.

"What the fuck was that for?" Crixus shouted. "I had the shot!"

"You would have been killed for it," Jordis returned.

"You're not my mother," Crixus retorted as he examined his bow again, making sure the arrow was fitted snug but loosely on the string. Leaning back out again, he sent off another arrow then ducked back behind the tree. A loud cry of pain brought a grin to his face: his arrow had found its mark.

"You seem to be enjoying this, my thane," Jordis commented.

"Killing Stormcloaks?" Crixus replied. "Best thing a loyal son of the Empire can do!" He leaned out from behind the tree again and sent off another shot.

"But why aren't we moving like before?" she asked.

"There's about fifty yards that way," Crixus gestured to his left. "With no cover. They know where we are, it wouldn't do to move there with so much risk of being hit."

"Why don't we both run?" Jordis suggested. "I'll hold my shield up!"

"Oh yes, great plan!" Crixus replied sarcastically. "And what then, get shot in the knee? That little piece of shite steel isn't a proper shield, like they have in the Legion."

"We could crouch down?" Jordis suggested again.

"Maybe if you're clad in heavy Legion steel armor, like yourself," Crixus commented. "But I wear the leather armor, it's lighter, faster. Speed is something I need."

"Then run, my thane," Jordis replied, throwing his arrows onto the ground. "Run once they start shooting at me."

Before Crixus could chide her for her foolishness, Jordis was off, shield raised to protect her head and upper body. She went back the way they had come towards the grove of trees. Crixus, who was still hiding behind his own tree, heard arrows whistling down from the battlements, but noticed that none of them were as near or as loud as they were before. Reluctantly, he peered out from behind his tree, noticing that most of the sentries were distracted by Jordis' foolhardy charge. Picking up his arrows, Crixus began running across the empty field of snow as quickly as his legs and the deep snow would allow him.

About half-way across, he halted ten feet away from a large rock jutting out of the snow and took aim. It was too easy, most of the foolish rebels aiming for his idiot housecarl and not keeping an eye on him. With a relaxed sigh, he let an arrow loose and felled one of the rebel archers on the wall.

"Over there!" he heard someone shouting. "They're trying to flank us. Shoot him down!"

The jig was up. Crixus bounded the rest of the way from the stone, sliding down the snow into a little-used footpath north-west of the fort. Just then, he heard a silver horn being blown: the horn of the Imperial Legion. They were marching down to the battle.

_Yes,_ he mused to himself. _Let's kick some white arses!_

But his moment of joy was short-lived as more arrows came whistling towards him. Getting back up, he dashed the rest of the way behind another tree that was at the edge of another grove at the foot of the mountain on the western side of the fort. Looking back towards the main road, he could see through the trees the crimson banners of the Imperial Legion. The first attack had begun. Whatever happened to Jordis was not his concern, but once the second attack was joined, there would be no resisting by the hand of the rebels. Now all attention was turned towards the north-east, back towards the road.

Fewer arrows were aimed at Crixus, and he did his best to send a few back at the defenders clustered at the north-eastern corner of the fort. A few arrows found their mark, but most of them struck the large tower and fell useless to the ground. He then reached onto his belt, which still held most of his gear which he had replenished at Belethor's General Goods in Whiterun before leaving for Solitude. One such thing was another grappling hook and, with most of the enemy out of reach and the stone wall left relatively undefended, it would be no issue to scale the wall and bring down the gate.

Up to the wall ran Servius Crixus and up went his grappling hook. Three tries it took before the hook fastened onto the crenelations along the wall and he started scaling the stony face. As he took the top, he gazed out for a moment and saw the main army pressing towards the gate, arrows flying into the fort grounds. If he were not careful, he could very well be cut down by friendly fire.

Just then, as the second horn blew, a large rebel came running towards him with a battle-axe. The Nord swung down, but Crixus leaped aside and drove his gladius into the Nord's throat, killing him instantly without making much noise. Picking up his grappling hook, Crixus ran along the wall, his next target the tower. He heard someone shout, but he had no time to see if it was for him or for the army that was coming towards the gate. Sheathing his gladius, he leaped up onto a large shelf of stone that had once been the barracks at the far end of the courtyard. He had scarce climbed atop when someone attacked him from above, swinging a mace at his hands. He narrowly escaped the first swing by letting go, but he only had two hands and the next swing was aimed at that hand. Deftly he switched hands, then pulled himself swiftly up, knocking the mace-wielding rebel down before driving a knife through his throat. Another two charged at him together, one with a sword and the other with a shorter axe. Crixus evaded their blows, moving swiftly as he attempted to use themselves to take each other down. His strength was precious and he still needed that.

Crixus jogged towards the entrance to the tower, keeping the two rebels following after him. All was still within his hands and these two idiot Nords were just pawns in the game which he was only whiling away the moments until victory was his. He now bounded up the stairs, with the sword-wielding rebel leaping after him. A kick to the chest sent the sword-wielder back down the stairs, his axe-wielding comrade barely escaping being knocked down by the falling body. Crixus continued on up the stairs, the axe-wielder running after him. From above, another rebel came rushing down the stairs, but Crixus ducked and kicked in his knee-cap on his left leg, the one that was closest to the edge of the stone stairwell. Down fell the Nord to the bottom: at best the fall killed him, and at worst he was now incapacitated with a broken knee.

Looking back down the stairs, he saw the axe-wielder swinging wildly and the sword-wielder charging up from the bottom. Crixus ducked out of the way of the swinging axe, placing himself further down the stairs, between the charging swordsman and the swinging axe-man. He waited until they were almost on top of him, the swordsman lunging forward and the axeman swinging horizontally for a neck slice, before he stepped aside and ducked: the axeman's axe buried into the forehead of the swordsman, whose blade ran the axeman through. They both fell dead off the side of the stairwell.

"Nords," Crixus decried as he made his way back up the stairs to the top.

At the top of the stairs, back out in the cold morning air, Crixus took the flag of the bear upon the blue field, the banner of the Stormcloaks, and threw it down onto the ground. Hopefully someone would be around to burning it later, for now it was just a spear to the enemy's morale. Hitching his grappling hook to the crenelated top of the tower, Crixus slid down the rope onto the makeshift wooden wall below. Out went his sword and down went the first rebel to try to take him down. The next one began charging, but Crixus leaped over him and cut the rope that held the gate. Now the great wooden gate, or at least one door of it, could be pushed or pulled open manually and there was nothing to hold it in place.

But at that moment, there was a loud cry as a Nord with two axes came rushing towards Crixus from the rear. Crixus turned around, barely with enough time to hold up his hands to seize the rebel's wrists, when suddenly the body lurched upon him, practically knocking him down with its weight. As he pushed the body off, he saw a steel sword sticking out of its back and a tiny figure in an Imperial steel armor and uniform fighting off three rebels at once without a sword. He ran down the wall and saw, to his surprise, a steel shield riddled with arrows.

_By the Mace of Molag Bal!_ Crixus thought to himself.

There wasn't much left of a battle after this. The north gate came down and Imperial soldiers poured into the fort. The southern gate had already fallen, which was how Jordis had managed to get into the fort. Crixus, meanwhile, made his way to the keep at the far south-western end of the fort, where soldiers from Rikke's cohort were raising the Red Diamond over the fort. Jordis was standing at Crixus' side, her head held down.

"A good victory," Rikke stated. "No casualties, only seventeen wounded."

"Legion training at its finest," Crixus replied, a smile across his face. "And it seems you know more than just a few useless Nord traditions nobody gives a shite about."

"I don't wear this uniform because it looks good, soldier," Rikke retorted.

"Whatever," Crixus grumbled. "So, what's next?"

"Legate Taurinus and myself will leave a small garrison here," she began. "While we send the rest of our troops back to the camp and to Solitude. Your job will be to go back to Solitude and wait for further orders."

"I see," Crixus nodded. Though he wondered if he should dally along the way. He had vital information to return to Mercer Frey in Riften and there was still his invitation to the Dark Brotherhood in Falkreath.

"What about the others?" Jordis asked. "The ones we captured?"

"There are no prisoners in war," Rikke stated. "I will have my men force them to kneel: break their legs if they must. Then they will be executed, as befits a traitor."

"You can't kill unarmed prisoners!" Jordis interjected.

"I advise you to keep your huscarl on a tight leash, Crixus," Rikke said to Crixus. "She does not know her place."

"She's the commander, b*tch," Crixus said to Jordis. "Listen to her."

"I want to send Ulfric and his army of cock-suckers a clear message," Rikke stated. "There will be no honor in fighting against the Empire. Those who oppose us will die dishonorably, surrendering on their knees and not in battle. There will be no second measures with them: no pitying hearts in Cyrodiil, or quiet songs sung in their honor here in Skyrim, and no admittance into Sovngarde. They will die on their knees after the battle is over."

"Long live the Empire!" Crixus saluted proudly.

Rikke returned the salute, then gave the order to a captain for the captured rebels to be executed.

"This is all wrong," Jordis muttered in disgust. "Depriving them of their honor. It's barbaric!"

"Barbaric tactics for barbaric people," Crixus added. "It's only thing your people will understand."

"I just saved your life, my thane!" Jordis retorted, adding the appellation thick with sarcasm. "And all you have for me are more insults about my people?"

"I will curse the Nordic race until there are no Nords to plague Tamriel with their ignorance and filth," Crixus mused aloud, calmly and matter-of-factly. "And I will do so wherever I am and in whatever company." He wanted to see how she would respond: had her time in the Blue Palace given her any measure of social enlightenment, or was she just another dumb, brutish Nord with a sword in her hand? Would she let his words go or rush to them like a personal affront to her honor?

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean that his words about Nords were untrue.

"You know," she said at last. "While you were away, I tried to have Jarl Elisif give me to another thane: she said no. She said that she wanted someone smart to temper your crass and forward behavior."

"She called _me_ crass and forward?" Crixus asked.

"Walking into a grieving noblewoman's room and trying to have your way with her is neither subtle nor cordial," Jordis mentioned.

Crixus looked about this way and that for any who might be listening in, then seized Jordis by the throat.

"How do you know about that?" he whispered.

"I'm a...servant...of the Jarl," she gasped. "We know...everything. Besides...Erikur already knows. He...found out...from one of the...other maids. He knows...everything that...goes on in...Solitude!"

Crixus threw her back down, angry that his private moment with the Jarl was practically public news. He feared now that maybe even the Thalmor knew about it and might use that against him somewhere along the line. He would have to play any further visits to Elisif's chambers closer to the chest, being more and more careful.

"Hmph," he grumbled. "So you _can_ fight, I see? Well, next time, fight harder! And don't drag your feet on the way back to Solitude, because I am not carrying you."

* * *

**(AN: And there we have one of many battles to come. I had fun writing up Crixus' fighting style, even though I'm not exactly partial to the whole Green Arrow/Altair style in _Skyrim_. But with Eirik, who is part Abraham Lincoln and part Conan the Barbarian, he wears heavy armor and has enough strength to sever limbs and heads with one blow. Crixus, on the other hand, while he is "Legion strong" [Imperial version of "army strong"], he prefers to use his mind more than just his raw strength. So, obviously, they don't fight the same way.)**

**(Like the description says, there is some crude language. So i had my moment there. And we had a rare moment of insight into Crixus' mind and why he eggs people on, especially Nords. And, like in _The Princess Brides II_, the "servants" know everything. Also, speaking of underrated movies, one of Crixus' lines was inspired by something Chaucer said in _A Knight's Tale_. Wonder if you can guess)**


	27. Alone With the Jarl

**(AN: I may have said something about this before, but Crixus will not immediately warm up to Jordis. For many reasons, but aside from the obvious, Crixus sees her, like how my brother sees Jordis in _Skyrim_, as window dressing and not an asset for war.)  
**

**(Among the [many] subplots in this story, i'm starting another one in this chapter. The dialogue from the game portion kind of doesn't make sense, since in my story Skyrim is much larger and, even in the game, the place in question is nowhere near Dragon Bridge. So that bit of dialogue is altered a bit.)**

* * *

**Alone with the Jarl**

For the rest of that day, Crixus and Jordis rode as far west as they could, following the Stonehill and Eldersblood mountains so as to not pass through Morthal again. Jordis asked him why he was uninterested in going there, but his answer was vague at best.

"Let's just say," he said. "That there's someone there I'd rather not be entangled with again. Another idealistic idiot who thinks they can change me with love and faith."

By nightfall, they had left the wetlands of western Hjaalmarch, but were still no nearer the town of Dragon Bridge. They found a grove of pines where Crixus tied up the horse and kept watch while Jordis slept against the bole of the pine tree. The young Nord slept peacefully, but Crixus, now burdened with keeping watch for the horse and for her, had to stay up for most of the night. He did not trust her to be disciplined enough to stay up for long hours of arduous boredom on nightly watches, and this was, after all, Skyrim: there were still many dangers in the wilds, especially at night and most certainly in this country.

When morning came, Crixus realized that he had fallen asleep on his watch. Looking back over at the tree, he saw a small fire beneath its branches, which Jordis was tending while the horse stood by, chewing on the grass.

"And just what in the name of every prince of Oblivion are you doing?" Crixus groaned.

"What does it look like?" Jordis returned. "I'm keeping this fire started so it can stay when I go looking for food."

"Food?" Crixus asked.

"We're just west of the marshes," Jordis replied. "I've been down here once, though not as far as we were just now. There's plenty of game in the Kilkreath mountains and down here, just north-west of Eldersblood Peak."

"Haven't you considered the possibility," Crixus asked. "That there might be people who will see the smoke from your fire and come after us? I don't know, maybe some bandits or those damn dirty rebels?"

"Gods, why can't you just appreciate what I do for you?" Jordis asked, frustration in her voice. "I saved your ass during the battle, and now I just want to make a bit of food for us before we leave..."

"I don't need food," Crixus returned.

"Don't be silly, everyone eats," Jordis replied.

"I've had to train my body to go without food for longer than usual," Crixus remarked. "During the War, rations were in short supply. Food was worth more than gold drakes, since most of it was being sent to Bravil and then the Imperial City before it fell. Then in Hammerfell, where there's mostly desert, we were lucky if we had more than three meals a week."

"There's no need to starve yourself now," Jordis stated. "There's plenty of food in Skyrim, in spite of the civil war."

"Oh, is that a fact?" Crixus asked disbelievingly.

"The local people, farmers, hunters, fishermen," Jordis began. "They sell what they don't eat at the local markets, and the Jarls take their tithe, of course. So far, there haven't been any major battles, just small skirmishes here and there, so there are few food shortages."

"Doesn't seem like much of a problem, then, this civil war," Crixus commented.

"It's unsafe to travel the holds," Jordis retorted.

"Like it was safer to walk in Skyrim _before_ the war began?"

"Look, I don't want to start another fight," Jordis groaned. "We're almost in Solitude, so you won't have to put up with me for much longer. Now just let me concentrate on the fire and soon we'll have something to eat."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then picked up his bow and left the tree. About three minutes later, he returned with a single wild coney. About twenty minutes more of preparation and Jordis had prepared a small stew, which Crixus refused, insisting once again that he was not hungry. Once Jordis had eaten, Crixus untied the horse and then mounted up from the last leg of the journey.

* * *

It was about midday when they arrived in Solitude, with Crixus tying up the horse at the stables and sending Jordis off to Proudspire Manor. After taking a heavy lunch (on the contrary, Crixus was famished), he washed his face and hands, cleaned his boots, then made his way to the Blue Palace. As he walked up to the door and its long line, he saw the foppish Erikur walk past the line, up to one of the guards, who then let him inside. A thought entered Crixus' head and he did likewise.

"Hold it right there, citizen," the guard interjected. "I can't be letting just anybody into the Jarl's court."

"I'm the thane of Solitude," Crixus replied.

"Is that so?" he asked. "Do you have any identifying icon or a gift the Jarl gave you?" Crixus presented the man with his gladius. "Aye, I see. Now that's some fine Imperial steel. It'll have to go out here, though. No weapons allowed inside the Blue Palace, thane."

Crixus deposited the sword and his bow and quiver, then walked into the anteroom of the Blue Palace. Up the stairs he went and paused at the topmost stair as he saw the Jarl sitting upon her throne, hearing a case from one of her citizens.

"I'm telling you, milady," the Nord replied. "Me son and me heard voices comin' from the old Wolfskull Cave, on the old mountain road. Voices and...and strange lights. There be strange magicks going on up there! And it ain't just me, milady. Varnius from Dragon Bridge be talkin' 'bout travelers disappearin' up in them parts too!"

"My dear Vigdis," Jarl Elisif said calmly. "It is in my best interest to see to the safety of my people. I will ask General Tullius to send a legion to the cave to secure the road."

"That is hardly a wise choice...my lady," the red-headed Falk Firebeard interjected. Crixus noticed how the Nord Vigdis seemed upset by this sudden breach of protocol, but the other richly attired folk around the throne did not seem to mind.

"Why?" Elisif asked. "It is my duty to ensure the safety of the people of Haafingar under my rule."

"There might not even be cause for any alarm," Falk retorted. "Uh...Sybille! Sybille Stentor, wise lady Stentor. Tell us what you know."

Crixus noted a woman heavily robed walking up to the throne. Her head was bowed and she wore gloves upon her hands, but even so, there was no sign or sight of her face, shrouded as it was by her hood. Crixus did not understand why she was thus heavily attired: it was rather hot in here, what with so many people down in the anteroom and up here around the throne. Frankly, it seemed stuffy and claustrophobic at times: yet she was dressed as if walking out into a blizzard.

"My lady," the woman spoke. Her voice told Crixus that she was a Breton, one of the mage-folk of High Rock. "My scrying has suggested nothing in that area. This may just be superstitious nonsense."

_A rather close-minded statement,_ Crixus mused. _Especially coming from a sorceress._ _No mage should ever say that anything is 'impossible.'_

"Yes," Falk continued, turning to the Jarl. "There is nothing to worry about. Animals, most likely. A troll come down from the mountains, looking for an easy prey, or perhaps a bear."

"What do you propose I do?" Elisif asked, staring wide-eyed and nervously at Falk.

"Our first priority is maintaining the security of Dragon Bridge," he stated. "Dragon Bridge is the key to Solitude. The rebels might yet try to attack us there in a vain effort to take the throne. Perhaps a few troops should be sent there: not a whole legion, but no more than ten."

"As always," Elisif returned, her voice somewhat strained. "Your counsel is most helpful, Master Firebeard." She turned to Vigdis. "Return to your home, good sir. Have faith that all will be done to bring peace to my hold. You are dismissed."

Vigdis left the Jarl's throne, a look of worry on his face. Crixus looked after him, then turned around to face the throne when he heard his name called. He knelt down before the throne, presenting himself before Jarl Elisif.

"Rise, friend," she greeted. "I hear that you fought the rebels at Fort Dunstad. I should like to hear about your glorious battles and whether you were successful or no."

"My lady," Crixus said with a smile. "I fought for the Empire: victory was assured us from the beginning."

Elisif smiled. "That is good news! Please, tell me more about how..." But at that moment, Crixus saw General Tullius lean in and whisper something into Elisif's ear. She nodded, but Crixus saw that her smile faded. "I must retire. Master Firebeard will oversee the affairs of state for the time being. General Tullius would like to hear about your success first and foremost, noble Crixus." She paused, then rose up and left the throne room. Falk Firebeard then walked over to the throne, sat down upon it and called forth the next hearing. General Tullius, meanwhile, walked over to where Crixus stood.

"I see you returned here before Legate Rikke," he said. "How did the battle go?"

"Victorious," Crixus replied. "The rebels were denied the fort. An adequate example has been made of those we captured. The Stormcloaks will know better than to try to take Whiterun out from under the Empire's nose!"

"That's good," Tullius nodded. "I'll wait for the specifics from the Legate. For now, however, I have another assignment for you."

"I am at the Empire's bidding," Crixus replied.

"You know, I take it, about the Markarth Incident," General Tullius stated.

"I've read about it," Crixus stated. "The Forsworn, the so-called Madmen of the Reach, took back their former lands, only to be slaughtered by Ulfric Stormcloak, bloodthirsty still after a bloody war with the Dominion."

General Tullius chuckled. "Arrianus Arius favored the cause of Madanach, the King Without a Throne. His account was...flavored with witnesses that were friendly towards him. Just as how the Placators seem to overlook all the bad that the Dominion have been doing in Cyrodiil."

Crixus chuckled. "There are no Dominion in Cyrodiil, sir. They're only here to weed out those Talos-worshiping Nords."

Tullius' face became grim. "Oh, I forgot. You've been living in Mournhold for the past twenty years. You don't know what's become of the Heartland, the beating heart and soul of the Empire."

"Alright then," Crixus returned. "You tell me the truth."

General Tullius scoffed. "This is war, Crixus. You should know as well as I do that there's no place for truth here. The rebels won't believe what Arius said because it paints their 'hero' in a bad light, whereas the loyalists believe whatever we and the scholars at the Imperial University in the capital tell them to believe. Let's leave truth to those who will win this war though they didn't fight in it: our job is the dirty work."

"I see," Crixus noted. "So what kind of 'dirty work' do you have for me?"

"First off, how did Riften go?"

Crixus shook his head. "Maven Black-Briar isn't going to be cooperative. She says she will use whoever rules Skyrim, that it's beneath her concern."

"Oh, another arrogant, 'apolitical' prick, I see," General Tullius stated. "They think they're so much better than the rest of us because they don't openly declare their loyalties to any one side. But in the end, they always come for the winners. And right now, though the war is officially undecided, the Empire is winning."

"That's good to know," Crixus smiling.

"However, that's no reason to start celebrating right now," General Tullius stated. "I brought up Madanach and Markarth because that place will be your next destination. While you were in Riften, I sent Torgrim of the Haafingar garrison there: officially he was on leave, but we watched him from afar."

"Why?" Crixus asked. "Isn't he a soldier?"

"Yes, he is," Tullius nodded. "And his loyalty is unquestionable. However, there have been...disturbing reports about attacks against the people of Markarth. Robbery, rapes, murders, that sort of thing: in broad daylight. Law and order are crumbling in Markarth. We can't let that happen."

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "Markarth is miles away from Windhelm, the rebels haven't even got camps that far west."

"The Reach is vital to our operations in Skyrim," Tullius began. "The city of Markarth is built in an old Dwemer ruin in the side of the mountains, so its nigh impregnable. Also the crags and valleys of the Reach make moving an army in or out of there a damn near impossible chore. Furthermore, there are vast deposits of silver in Cidnha Mine under the city, which is a great source of wealth, enough to fund our campaign indefinitely."

"Alright," Crixus nodded. "So what do I do?"

"Jarl Igmund is a spineless coward," General Tullius explained. "He begged Ulfric to rescue his city when the Reachmen first attacked, then when the Thalmor came to enforce the White-Gold Concordant, he threw Ulfric out and has been helping us since then. While he was wise enough to swear allegiance to the right side, he did so out of fear. But now there's a new piece on the board: Madanach."

"The last I heard about him," Crixus stated. "He was a prisoner in Cidnha Mine."

"He escaped," General Tullius replied. "Now he's at large. Considering what happened twenty years ago, he will most likely be making a move to take Markarth. That's where you come in."

"Why me?"

"Madanach's escape from Cidnha Mine," General Tullius stated. "Was orchestrated by Torgrim. I need you to get to Madanach and organize a truce between our two sides, the Empire and the Reachmen: one that permits the Empire access to the silver deposits as well as our right to garrison troops in Understone Keep in Markarth. The last thing we need is a second front opening up in the west to further destabilize the region."

Crixus saluted crisply. "Long live the Empire."

General Tullius lazily pounded his chest, but did not raise his arm, then walked down the stairs towards the anteroom. While Crixus was looking about, he noticed Falk and the mage Sybille Stentor sharing a few words. The Breton was leaning over to Falk, where he sat on the throne, and whispering into his ear.

"If they're whispering," a familiar voice drawled. "Then it's probably something you are not supposed to know."

Crixus slowly turned around, realizing that Erikur was standing to his right, arms crossed and a look of disapproval and condescension on his face.

"Says the one who reportedly knows everything going on in Solitude?" Crixus retorted.

"I keep Solitude running," he stated. "Without me, Elisif would run this hold into the dirt. I'm only doing what any true Nord would do to raise the honor and reputation of Solitude the crown jewel of Skyrim."

"Hmph," Crixus mused. "Raise the honor, I take it, and increase your own wealth on the side."

"What's wrong with a little money?" Erikur asked. "But money is only a means to an end, my friend. Just like the wedding between Vittoria Vici and that ignorant Snow-Shod fool."

"Why are you here?" Crixus asked. "Is this a shakedown?"

"Oh no, of course not," Erikur replied. "I was just...examining some hopeful prospects."

"Uh-huh," Crixus mused. "Well, you won't find any prospects here. I support the Empire, not you."

"And I'm well aware of the benefits of working with the Empire, Servius," Erikur stated, using Crixus' first name. "There's no need for us not to be friends. Although, if you do intend on making more passes on our grieving Jarl, you might want to be a little bit more discreet about it. Not everyone in Solitude is as trustworthy as I am." Erikur flashed Crixus a mocking grin, then went on his way.

* * *

Crixus watched as Erikur walked on his way, shaking his head as he finally disappeared. Confident now that he was not being watched, Crixus made his way back towards the Jarl's quarters. This time, however, the guards recognized him and he did not have to sneak. As he reached for the handle to open the door, something caused him to pause. His outstretched hand closed into a fist, which he gently rapped upon the wood.

"Who is it?" he heard Elisif ask from within.

"Crixus, my lady," he replied. "May I enter?"

"Yes, please."

Crixus took the handle and opened the door, stepping into the Jarl's quarters. When Elisif turned to him, he saw that she was beaming. Closing the door behind him, Crixus crossed the floor to the Jarl, knelt down and kissed her hand.

"How goes the war?" she asked.

"My lady," Crixus continued. "I cannot be on every front at once, but the battle of Fort Dunstad was a sweeping victory, as I told you in the throne room."

"That's good," she sighed, gently recoiling her hand. "I can never get a straight answer out of any of my courtiers." Crixus stood up as she began to pace across the floor, opening up to him.

"General Tullius tells me not to concern myself about the war, that everything will work out according to plan. None of my court can tell me anything about any battles, but I see them whispering to General Tullius when they think I'm preoccupied. But I want to know how much longer my people have to wait before peace comes to our land. I want that..._murderer_ brought to justice swiftly before he can poison the hearts of my people against me and against the Empire."

"Justice has always favored the Empire, my lady," Crixus replied. "I've seen first-hand what kind of folk the rebels are: they're a disorganized pack of bandits, murderers and thieves. Thugs of the worst sort. You have the best men in the Empire on your side. I can assure you that victory will be ours..._yours_."

"Oh, assurances, assurances," Elisif groaned. "Would that I could be _sure_ beyond a doubt! If I'm to be High Queen, how am I to serve my people if my court only give me assurances and not the truth?"

"The Empire does not fail, nor do they fail to keep their word," Crixus stated. He was about to continue, but he halted. Part of him deep down inside revolted against the words coming out of his mouth. He knew they were not true, yet he was telling her just the same. Why was he giving the Jarl falsehoods?

"You see?" she asked. "Even you are doubtful."

"Don't let my doubts give you cause to doubt the Empire," Crixus returned. "Above all else, though, you should trust yourself first. Falk Firebeard doesn't run Solitude, you do."

"But how can I run this city if I am not being given the opportunity to rule?" she asked. "They say that I am inexperienced, but when I try to rule, they strike me down like a pig before a banquet!"

"Then remind them who you are," Crixus stated. "You are the Jarl of Solitude, _you_ rule, they don't. Take their advice if it is sound, but _you_ are the one who rules."

"You..." stammered Elisif. "You're asking me to ignore my advisers. What if I make the wrong decision? They'll jump on the chance to use that as proof that I cannot rule!"

"I have faith in you, my lady," Crixus smiled. "I know you will do the right thing."

Elisif rolled her eyes and scoffed. "If only it were that easy." She then halted in her pacing and her hand reached up to her temple.

"What's wrong?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, nothing," she shook her head. "It's just...I don't know." She turned to Crixus. "Just now, when I was talking to you, I felt...light. As if I was carrying a heavy burden that was suddenly being unloaded. Now...now..." Her lips closed and she reached one hand up to her eyes.

"My apologies, my lady," Crixus replied. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

"It's not you," Elisif returned. "And by the gods, no more of this 'my lady' business. I've let you into my private chambers twice now. We're far beyond that."

"We are?" Crixus asked. "I was just trying to help you relax."

"And you did, especially today," she returned. "And you did it without violating my honor. But...I don't know. All the affairs of state seemed to be weighing me down, and now that they're off my mind, I...I thought about Torgrim and what he would do if he were still alive. He used to be the one who listened to me."

"I am sorry my l..."

"Elisif."

"Elisif," Crixus apologized. "I did not mean to open old wounds. I should be going now."

"No, wait!" she spoke up, reaching out her hand to him though she was out of reach. He turned around and took a step closer to her.

"Yes...Elisif?"

"I don't want to seem ungrateful," she said. "If it weren't for Ulfric, this wouldn't have been an issue. I don't know, it feels good to have someone on your side, someone who cares about you." She took a step closer to him.

"But when I look into your eyes when you talk to me like this," she continued. "There seems to be so much more." She turned away. "I don't know, maybe I'm just being a foolish child, dreaming about romance. You could just be some courtesan who wants to uncross my legs for me." She then turned back to him.

"But you didn't," she stated. "You had the chance to have your way with me, but you stopped when I said no. You gave me power to decide for myself."

"Well, I would hardly call that anything worthy of praise," Crixus stated. "I've been around much worse people, just did the decent thing."

"No one's ever given me that kind of power before," Elisif shook her head. "Who are you, Servius Crixus?"

"Nobody," Crixus replied.

"I want to find out just who you are," Elisif said. She walked over to the table and pulled up a seat for Crixus. "Won't you sit down? I'd love to hear about your exploits during the battle. You fought bravely for the Empire and for me, I want to hear about it."

Crixus nodded, then walked over to the table, pulled out a chair for Elisif, then sat himself down across from her as he went into a detailed account of the Battle of Fort Dunstad. He left nothing out, save for any choice words that passed between himself and Jordis as well as those details which painted the Empire and her servants the Imperial Legion in a harsh or negative light.

"It pleases me that the battle was won so quickly," she commented after the story was concluded. "And with so few casualties. It seems that the gods were on your side that day."

"That is not the case," Crixus returned. "It was our steel and the wit and cleverness of Legate Rikke and Legate Taurinus."

"Why do you say that?" Elisif asked.

Crixus sighed. "The gods have forsaken me."

"What do you mean by that?" Elisif asked again, concern in her voice and worry in her eyes.

"My mother died when I was only two years old," Crixus began. "She died giving birth to my brother Venerius. Until the War began, I was raised by my stepmother, Sedris Ulver. She was a rather b*tchy old Dunmer c...cow. She brought with her her daedric princes and tales of the harsh treatment her people received at the hands of Nords in Windhelm."

"Is that why you hate us?" Elisif asked.

"I don't hate you," Crixus returned. "Where did you hear that?"

"Jordis told me, before you left for the battle," Elisif returned. "She wanted me to send her to another lord, due to several arguments you two had, several of which had you saying some rather hateful remarks about my people."

"Since arriving in Skyrim," Crixus replied. "I haven't seen anything to make me believe otherwise. So far, everything my stepmother Sedris said to me has been proven true."

"I wish you could see that it wasn't so," Elisif stated.

"Oh, I know, not every Nord is like the Stormcloaks," Crixus groaned. "But you know, Nords have been doing the things the rebels do long before Ulfric Stormcloak was born. Now you might be different, and Legate Rikke might be different, and Torgrim Stone-Crusher might be different, but that's three people in a province of hundreds of thousands. It would be like..." He turned to a bowl full of fresh green apples at one end of the table and pulled it over.

"You see this apple?" he asked, plucking it out of the bowl. "Suppose this one apple were poisoned and placed back into the bowl and then supposing you were then asked to eat from it. Not all of the apples are poisoned, but there is still the likelihood that you will be poisoned even by touching them. What do you do?"

"Y...But you're talking about fruit," Elisif interjected. "You can't seriously think about throwing out an entire people?"

"Why not?" Crixus asked. "Their past proves to me that they deserve it, and there aren't enough good apples to bother trying to save this bunch."

Elisif scoffed. "What about me? Am I one of these apples unfortunate enough to be thrown away with the bad ones?"

"You're an exceptional woman," Crixus stated. "But exceptions are just that; they don't make the rules because they are exceptions."

"How is that just or fair?" Elisif asked.

"Look," Crixus groaned, avoiding her question. "This is just how I feel personally. I'm not the Emperor, so my opinion hardly matters. And if I were, I wouldn't let my personal opinions dictate what must be done."

"But how can you say to stand for the Empire," Elisif asked again. "When you don't believe what they say in your heart?"

"And what do you mean by that?" Crixus asked.

"I may be inexperienced, _and_ a Nord, but I'm not dumb," Elisif retorted. "I've seen the look in your eyes when you sing the Empire's praises. And your hatred of my people goes against what the Empire stands for. You doubt everything you say about the Empire. How can you possibly claim to represent them?"

"Don't anger me," Crixus seethed.

"Or what?" Elisif asked, rising from her chair. "I'm the Jarl and you're in _my_ bedchambers. I can call the guards on you if you try to attack me!" Elisif was shaking all over, her heart beating against her chest in violent trepidation. Her breath came in quick, nervous gasps.

To her surprise, Crixus smiled.

"Well done," he said. "That's what I want to see from you."

"What?" she whimpered, still eying the powerful war veteran as though he were a hungry saber-cat.

"It was a test," Crixus lied. "I wanted to see if you would stand up for yourself. You know I would never threaten you or try to harm you."

Elisif gasped for breath, then sat herself back down in the seat. Nearby, Crixus sighed.

"What do you know about what happened to Hammerfell after the Great War?"

"I was born eight years after the War ended," Elisif returned, still shaken by her sudden act of bravery.

"I was there," Crixus stated. "After the War ended and the White-Gold Concordant was signed, Hammerfell left the Empire. There was...something in the treaty that gave most of Hammerfell to the Dominion and the Crowns and Forebears didn't like that, so they left the Empire. Officially, the Empire withdrew all support from Hammerfell: they were no longer part of the Empire, they were allowed to die outside of our protection. Unofficially, just days before the White-Gold Concordant was signed, the 9th Legion under Justinian Claxitus marched into Hammerfell with the intent of wiping out the rest of the Dominion forces stationed there.

"I was in the 9th Legion."

Elisif seemed to be listening with wrapped attention as Crixus told about the War and what happened afterwards. Were he discussing any other topic, he would have been smiling. But his thoughts were going back to those five grueling years in Hammerfell and the final months of blood.

"We...assisted the Crowns and the Forebears in fighting off the Dominion, though the Redguards did most of the work and we were shunned from being quartered in their cities. We never found out why until three years later: the War was over and Hammerfell had left the Empire. Claxitus sent most of us home, but a few of us stayed with him. I was one of the stupid sons of b*tches to elect to stay behind." He sighed, rubbing his temples with both hands as if to wipe in vain the memories out of his mind.

"We...kept on fighting. For two more years we fought as willful outlaws. The Empire sent missive after missive urging us to return or face court marshal: General Claxtius used the missives to light our camp-fires. We were chased all around Hammerfell by the locals and by the Dominion, until..." He paused again, feeling that he was entering the territory of familiar and unwelcome memories.

"Until what?" Elisif asked.

"Until we were lost in the mountains," Crixus stated. "There is a pass...where the Druadach and Dragontail Mountains meet. The 9th Legion camped there for the rest of that year, even into the winter, when soldiers were taking sick and dropping like flies. At last, however...the Dominion found us. There was..." He cleared his throat. "...a battle. A lot of people died. When the smoke finally cleared, we were met with reinforcements from the Empire. They were there for us, but not to help us. They took us back to Cyrodiil, where the 9th Legion was officially disbanded."

"Is that why you doubt the Empire?" Elisif asked.

"Oh, there's more," Crixus added. "At first the locals hated us, but then, when we were returning, I heard them hail us as heroes. No matter what anyone says of the Battle of the Red Dog, every single bastard in the 9th Legion was a hero. And for our heroism, we were publicly shamed, stripped of our ranks, dishonored and told to shut up and go on with our lives. I was put in a dead-end post in the last Imperial prefecture on mainland Morrowind: Mournhold." He sighed again, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

"What the Empire did to us," Crixus concluded. "It wasn't right. They abandoned us, left us to die, even after they brought us back to Cyrodiil. We stuck our necks out for those who didn't deserve it, and we got burned."

Elisif didn't say a word at first, but only reached her hand out and took his hand in hers. Crixus' hands were larger and calloused, worn as if with a great many winters with no hope of a spring.

"I'm sorry," she whispered at last.

"It's nothing," Crixus replied, pulling his hand away from hers.

"If you have no faith in the Empire," Elisif asked. "Why do you fight for them?"

"There was once a dream that was the Empire of Cyrodiil," Crixus stated. "A dream which noble men like Uriel and Martin Septim made a reality. Now that dream is barely more than a whisper, so fragile. You ask me why I fight? I fight so that one day that dream might become a reality. I believe in the Empire and what it could be. _That_, Elisif, is why I fight."

Elisif nodded, a grim smile upon her face and tears welling up in her eyes. She reached for her kerchief when Crixus then leaned in and wiped from off her cheek a tear that had started to fall. After dabbing her eyes dry with the lace kerchief, Elisif smiled.

"If you're not very busy," she replied. "I would like to invite you to stay at court for a while longer. Your presence would be most welcome."

"Thank you, my lady," Crixus sighed, trying desperately to forget the memories that emerged once again. "But I have been sent westward, to Markarth. I will be gone for a while and therefore cannot oblige you immediately."

"Very well, duty calls," Elisif replied.

"However," Crixus spoke up. "There is one question I must ask you."

"Oh?"

"While I was in Riften, on a mission for General Tullius," Crixus began. "I overheard the Jarl of Riften mediating something that sounded like the arrangements of a wedding engagement."

"Oh, yes!" Elisif stated. "The wedding of Vittoria Vici and Asgeir Snow-Shod. I received a message from the Emperor himself, detailing the wedding of his cousin. You know, the marriage is supposed to happen here in Solitude some time in the autumn."

"Why autumn?" Crixus asked. "That's a long time off from today."

"Autumn is when the year's crop is gathered," she replied. "It will signify the bounty and blessings the gods give upon us during the autumn, and hopefully gain their blessing upon the marriage."

"Aha," Crixus mused. "But why Asgeir Snow-Shod? From what I heard, his father supports the rebellion."

"The Snow-Shod family of Riften are strong supporters of the rebellion," Elisif answered. "But the Emperor is positive that a wedding between his cousin and one of the 'truest sons of Skyrim' will help to mend the rift that is building among my people."

"In Solitude?" Crixus mused. _Of course,_ he thought to himself. _Solitude has often been the seat of the highest Imperial influence, plus it is a loyalist hold. T__he wedding _should_ be there to remind the people of Skyrim that __it is the _Empire _which is the strength and influence in Skyrim, not the Nords._

"Yes, of course," Elisif replied.

Crixus nodded. It could not have been more political if the Emperor had married off his cousin to a Redoran House noble or to, gods forbid, Thelgil of Alinor. Even in Mournhold the reputation of one of the Aldmeri Dominion's most notorious Thalmor proceeded him.

"Well, if that is everything," Crixus began, rising up from his seat.

"Please," Elisif interjected, taking hold of his hand. "Don't go. I want something from you."

"Oh?" Crixus asked. "Is it a command?"

"What? Yes! Yes, it's a command!"

"Command me, Elisif."

"Stay with me."

* * *

**(AN: While this chapter does hint on some rather risque material, I want to have them build their relationship rather than just throw Elisif at Crixus, like how so many other women will be "thrown" at him. I also had a good opportunity to do something besides writing another "journey" chapter: character and plot development! While i prefer lawful good/chaotic good characters, writing Erikur was fun. I liked making an intellectual bad-guy who wasn't misunderstood or just plain violent, someone like Lex Luthor from _Superman_ [that's probably the comic Luthor, not the real estate shark from the films: one of the few weak spots about those films].)**

**(Tried to give Elisif and Crixus a better scene together than the last one, some dialogue, a bit of conflict, some of Crixus' back-story. Hope it all pays off.)**


	28. The Minstrel's Voice

**(AN: After finishing _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_, i had ideas of smaller spin-off fics, ones that were not necessarily tied into the main story of Eirik and Crixus but told separate events that happened at those same times. Two of those will be incorporated into this story since Crixus is slightly involved in those events. I just hope that i can fit the entire story chapter's title into the Doc Manager)**

* * *

**Torgrim's Tale Part I: The Minstrel's Voice  
**

The following day after Crixus' return to Solitude found him waking up bright and early. He had spent the rest of the afternoon with Elisif in her quarters. When their liaison had completed, she sent him back to Proudspire Manor as she returned to the court. He spoke not a word to Jordis as he disrobed himself and fell asleep from exhaustion in his bed in the upper room. The next day he found a letter at the foot of his bed. Upon quick examining of the note, he found that it was from Idgrod the Younger in Morthal. Not even bothering to read it, he tore the letter in two and threw it on the ground, then quickly dressed into his ranger's gear before setting out for the Winking Skeever.

After purchasing some food from the bar-tender, he looked for a table when he saw a familiar figure. True enough, in Crixus' mind there wasn't much setting Torgrim Stone-crusher from any other Nord he had met. He was tall, built like a mountain, with long blond hair, a bushy yellow beard and blue eyes: basically, he was no different than all the rest. The only thing that set this particular Nord apart at this moment was the fact that he was wearing his uniform, with a long-bladed sword sitting upon the chair next to him. Crixus walked over and chuckled as he saw the bottle of mead by his morning plate.

"Do you Nords drink anything besides mead?" Crixus asked. "I've been here for a little over a month and every meal, it seems, someone is drinking."

"What's the matter?" Torgrim chuckled. "They don't drink in Cyrodiil?"

"I haven't been to Cyrodiil since the War ended," Crixus stated. "And you'd pass out after one sip of that sujamma they have in Morrowind." He walked back to the bar, told the tender where to send his food, then walked back to Torgrim.

"I heard you've been in Markarth lately," Crixus said once he sat down.

"Aye, that I was," Torgrim nodded ruefully. "And it ain't a place I'd like to go willingly."

"Well, it seems we might have to do just that," Crixus replied. "General Tullius said something about the King in Rags, Madanach. Is there anything you can..."

Torgrim sighed. "I was on leave. I visited my family in Hjaalmarch, then went west to Old Hroldan to sample some of their mead and sleep in the inn of Talos."

"Oh, by Namira's rotten nethers," groaned Crixus. "Don't tell me you're another ignorant Talos-thumping Nord, are you? You know, you'd be kicked out of the Legion and branded a rebel if Tullius found out about this."

"Talos is a hero to the people of Skyrim," Torgrim stated. "Frankly, I don't give a fuck about some White-Gold Concordant or what some elves say. The people of Skyrim have always worshiped Talos, and we will continue to worship Talos until the last Nord dies."

"That's not only treasonous," Crixus stated with a finger of warning leveled towards Torgrim's face. "That's blasphemous."

"You can believe whatever you like," Torgrim returned. "But my loyalty is to the Emperor alone. You'd be surprised to know that there are many loyal Nords in the Imperial Legion who worship Talos in secret."

"Then they are rebels and outlaws," Crixus stated plainly. "They should be executed for their deceit and treason. Talos wasn't worthy of godhood, much less of being respected as a man."

"Do you want to hear my tale or argue about Talos?" Torgrim groaned.

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Whatever. So what happened?"

"I stopped at Old Hroldan, an out-of-the-way little place in the midst of the crags and valleys of the Reach," Torgrim began. "There wasn't much in the way of customers there. Just two people who owned the inn, a boy, a group of some sellswords and wayward adventurers, and one bard..."

* * *

Old Hroldan was rather smoky for a bright, late First Seed mid-afternoon. Inside the inn, Torgrim strode on his long-shanks. There was a young woman sitting at a table with several mercenaries, adventurers and wayward sellswords, her lute in hand as she sang about the grand adventures of the old Nordic hero Ragnar the Red. Though the song was, by all accounts, silly and bloody, there was something about the young woman's voice that seemed to entrance Torgrim. Though he was a married man with children, he couldn't get the young bard's voice or the earnestness in her eyes as she played out of his mind.

As the song came to an end, Torgrim walked over to the young woman as she was making her way from the table.

"Excuse me," he spoke up. The young woman, barely coming up to his chest, turned around to the large Nord who stood before her. "I heard you singing just a moment ago. And, well, I wanted to let you know that you were very skilled."

"Why, thank you, sir," the young woman replied. Her voice was not that of a Nord. "I've been practicing my skill with a lute and singing for as long as I can remember. That was my biggest passion, to play music across Tamriel, see all the many sites and entertain people with stories of old. Would you like a song?"

"Uh, I think so," Torgrim nodded. "How much?"

"Ten septims," she stated. Torgrim fished into his purse and pulled out the exact amount. "Now, what would you like to hear? I know some local favorites, like Ragnar the Red, the Age of Aggression, Three Hearts as One..."

"Sing that one," Torgrim stated. "Three Heart as One."

"That's a fine tale," the young woman smiled. "Calling back to a time before this inn was built, when there was friendship between the races of Tamriel: even between the Nords, the dark elves and the Argonians. It's a rather old piece, but I think I can remember it." Torgrim found a seat for himself, then pulled up a chair for the young woman, who sat on the seat and began plucking away at her instrument. Slowly the steady, solemn melody and its droning chords began to play out and the young woman began to sing.

_We tilled Skyrim's ground despite frozen toil  
We tended the kwama beneath Morrowind's soil  
We hunted the wamma-su in Black Marsh's glades  
We Three Hearts had no need for blades_

_Then they came from the seas, folded steel in their hands  
They burned down our homes and ravaged our lands  
Akaviri brought nothing but bloodshed and lies  
Our families were slain before our eyes_

_With three separate peoples, we shared a cruel joke  
A choice between death or the yoke  
But then our three people knew what must be done  
To end the oppression, our Three became One_

_Forged by war, the Ebonhearts rose  
And drove the Akaviri back to the sea  
When the enemies begged for the mercy they lacked  
Three voices as One shouted 'Blood for the Pact!'_

_Forged by war our story be told  
No shackles can hold us, whether moonstone or gold_

The song ended and Torgrim found that his eyes were watering. The young woman smiled.

"That was beautiful," Torgrim stated.

"Pity things weren't so cordial in Skyrim these days," she stated. "I'm glad you liked the song by the way."

"So who are you, if I may ask?" Torgrim asked.

"My name is Asteria," the young woman replied. "I'm from Bravil, and I'm on my way across Tamriel, bringing music and joy to those I meet. There's one place I haven't got to, though, and that's Markarth."

"Markarth?" asked Torgrim. "The stone city, the capital of the Reach?"

Asteria nodded. "I'd like to play there, maybe get Jarl Igmund to give me a commission to play at his court or something."

"You're traveling to Markarth alone?" he asked.

Asteria looked towards the table she had been entertaining previously. "Well, they said they'd take me half-way, which I'm guessing is here. I would like to believe they'd be willing to go the rest of the way. From what I hear, the Reach is a dangerous place these days."

"Dangerous?" Torgrim asked. "How dangerous can it be? The Jarl is loyal and there are no rebels this far west."

"The danger doesn't necessarily come from the Stormcloaks," Asteria stated. "The Forsworn, the madmen of the Reach, haunt the valleys and crevices of this hold, attacking travelers who violate their lands."

"Where are their lands?" Torgrim asked.

"I don't know, I'm a stranger to this part of Skyrim," Asteria replied. "And, by the sound of things, you seem to be as well."

"Nevertheless," Torgrim continued. "I have an arm of iron. Not for naught am I called Stone-crusher. As a young man I quarried stone in the Stonehill mines, breaking stone for the building of walls and castles. Now I break rebel skulls."

Asteria laughed. "I took you for a strong one, sirrah. But I assume you'll be wanting some kind of compensation for your services?"

Torgrim chuckled. "I'm a father, young Asteria. I'm sure you have someone at home waiting for you, and I want to make sure you arrive in Markarth safely. Call it a gesture of goodwill."

Asteria smiled. "That's very generous of you. But, I've been on the road quite a bit and need to rest. If you're serious about accompanying me to Markarth, then we will leave at first light tomorrow. By the way, what is your name, Master Stone-crusher?"

"Torgrim."

* * *

Crixus was chuckling as he heard Torgrim tell the story.

"What's so damn funny?" Torgrim asked.

"A married man taking up with a young minstrel?" Crixus asked. "And a woman, no less."

"It wasn't like that!" Torgrim roared, turning more than a few heads. Crixus lowered his but then Torgrim continued. "It's like I told her. I'm a father myself, and I know what it would be like to see my two children off by themselves, wandering in dangerous parts. Because of that, I wanted to protect her."

"Whatever you say," Crixus smirked. "So, what happened? Tell me about these Forsworn, the 'madmen' of the Reach."

"We encountered 'em twice before we reached Markarth," Torgrim continued. "They dressed like barbarians, in animal skins, hagraven feathers, bones, skulls and weapons made of bone and wood."

"And the pot calls the kettle black," Crixus snickered.

"They were good fighters," Torgrim continued, ignoring Crixus' crass remark. "But I'm rather strong, as you no doubt can see. Not for naught am I known as 'Stone-Crusher' back home, and I was trained in the Legion." Crixus nodded, inside he found himself oddly respecting this barbaric Nord. He seemed to realize that true strength and prowess in battle didn't come from being the strongest like so many of his people. Brute strength was nothing without discipline, which the Legion gave. Torgrim was wise enough to see this.

"It took all day to cross the gorges and gullies in that region," Torgrim carried on. "We camped in one gully only to be awakened in the middle of the night by the Forsworn. That was our second battle, and we had to move before dawn, hoping to throw them off the trail. Then at last, as morning was dawning behind us, we saw Markarth..."

* * *

**(AN: The telling of this story is for several reasons. One of them, of course, as a major fan of the _Elder Scrolls_ series and the better parts of its fandom, is to include one of the Interesting NPCs, set up for the half of this story that will be set in Cyrodiil, and also as part of Crixus' change of his view of Nords. i don't know what the deal is with song lyrics if they are part of the game, like in _Skyrim_ and _ESO_. With _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_, i've been able to include songs from the game, as well as fan-made songs from those games, so i hope this is passable. Once more a subtle tribute to the awesome Malukah.)**


	29. Blood in the Streets

**(AN: Aside from just meandering, part of this mini-story is for the whole Madanach sub-plot and, as I said before, changing how Crixus views Nords. But it is also the first time in my story that Markarth will be described on page [i guess]. as Whiterun is the "Edoras" of _Skyrim,_ this city will of course be the "Helm's Deep" of _Skyrim_.)**

* * *

**Torgrim's Tale Part II: Blood in the Streets**

Torgrim had seen the walls of Windhelm and Solitude, as well as the humble lake-town of Morthal and the great, 'traditional' city of Whiterun atop its lofty hill in the middle of the southern plains. But none of those great cities prepared him for the wonder of Markarth, the capital city of the Reach and one of the wonders of the architecture of the Dwemer people.

After walking all the previous day through the valleys and gullies of the Reach, then spending the morning doing the same, they came to a point where the land before them, still very rocky and craggy, was flatter and less rugged than the land behind them. The wide valley before them narrowed as it passed up towards the foothills of the Druadach Mountains, split down the middle by a stream which fed the Karth River. At the end of that valley was a large fortress-city built into the side of the mountains, forged out of the solid rock. At the mouth of the valley, where it began to grow narrower as stony arms of the mountain stretched out into the valley as natural defenses, there was a small wall with several towers in it which stood as a first line of defense in case of attack. At the city itself, the walls were massive and the towers lofty and, despite made of stone, seemed to have withstood the test of time. This fortress-city was not made in the Imperial or Nordic fashion, for its creators and first inhabitants were the Dwemer, the ancient deep elves which had disappeared centuries ago.

"There it is," Torgrim said to Asteria as she took a stand at his side. "Markarth. By the gods, I never thought it would live up to its reputation."

"It's magnificent," Asteria smiled. "It would be good to play there."

"Well, you might just get your chance," Torgrim stated.

The two made their way down the hill, joining at last the road as it crossed the Karth River by a stone bridge. Over the bridge they went, making their way steadily down the road that wound through the valley up to the gates of the city. The gates were open and they passed into the market-square of the city. Their eyes met the market-square of Markarth which, like everything else in the city, was made of stone. The shops, vendors and merchant stands which had been set up in the stone courtyard were made of the usual stuff - wood, cloth, merchant's carts and tents in which vendors sold their goods. There seemed to be quite a bit of activity about, with many Bretons and Nords among those present but also several large Orcs as well.

"Death to the white murderers! The Reach for the Forsworn!" a voice suddenly cried out over the hubbub of market day.

Suddenly there was a cry and people started running in all directions from one of the meat stands. Turning there, Torgrim saw a body lying on the ground, a pool of blood gathering around where the body had fallen. Standing over the body was a bald Breton with a blood-stained knife. Behind him, Asteria cowed back with the rest of the crowd: Torgrim, on the other hand, strode forward to meet the murderer.

Then, just as suddenly as the attack had happened, an arrow came out of nowhere and struck down the assassin. Three hold guards clad in Lincoln green with shields bearing the charge of a ram's head approached the fallen assassin. The one in the rear, Torgrim saw, had his bow out while one of the first two who reached the assassin buried his sword in the fallen man's throat.

"You there!" one of the guards shouted, pointing towards Torgrim. "You didn't see anything."

"What?" Torgrim retorted. "But that woman there..."

"That's none of your concern, outsider," the guard retorted. "We don't trust outsiders in Markarth, not since what happened after the War. Now keep your mouth shut or you'll find yourself in Cidhna Mine real fast."

"But what about the Forsworn?" Torgrim asked. "He said something about them before he killed her."

"You must have been hearing things," the guard retorted. "Because he said nothing of the sort. Now push off, go on about your business." The guard then turned to the people. "It's alright, nothing to see here. Return to your homes, or the inn. The market-square is closed until we learn about what happened here."

People began to disperse, but while Torgrim stood there, Asteria and a strange man made their way up behind Torgrim.

"By the Eight!" a Breton man's voice exclaimed near Torgrim's right ear. "A woman murdered in broad daylight. I only hope the gods give us more peace in the future." Just then, before Torgrim could respond, the man quickly closed the distance and leaned into Torgrim's ear, whispering. "You dropped this."

Turning suddenly around, Torgrim noticed that the man was gone, but in his stead there was a note lying in his hand. Asteria walked over to Torgrim's front and examined the note.

"You didn't drop that," she said. "I saw him put it in your hands when he came close to you. It was in his pocket."

Torgrim said nothing as he opened the note. It was short and hastily scribbled: _Meet me at the Shrine of Talos._ Torgrim shrugged, then looked around, wondering what he could do to find information. A large stone building on the opposite side of the market-square caught his attention. But while Torgrim made his way towards the structure, Asteria paused as she heard voices just off to the left.

"What should we do about that one?" a voice muttered. "He was asking questions."

"Follow him," another added. "But from a distance. Make sure he doesn't go too far."

"Yes, captain."

* * *

The large building which Torgrim and Asteria entered was nothing less than the Silver-Blood Inn. Torgrim and Asteria ordered food and drink for themselves as they took their seat at one of the tables. They ate in silence for a while until Torgrim noticed that Asteria was looking a little down.

"What's wrong, girl?" he asked. "Still upset about what happened in the market square?"

"Who couldn't be?" Asteria returned. "But there's something else, though. In case you hadn't noticed, there's already a bard here at the Silver-Blood Inn. Now I suppose I'll never be able to play before Jarl Igmund."

"Don't think like that," Torgrim assured the young woman. "Where there's a will, there will always be a way. Perhaps I can find some way of getting you heard?"

"Maybe," Asteria sighed. "The only thing I heard was that there's a guard who works at Understone Keep who might be able to help. Maybe you could find him here in the inn: his name is Lundvar."

"I'll see what I can do," Torgrim nodded.

"By the way," Asteria interjected. "Be careful. I overheard some of the guards muttering something about following you from a distance. They know you were asking questions and they don't want you to get too far."

"No need for concern, Asteria," Torgrim chuckled. "I'm more than a match for most men."

Torgrim walked up to the bar, which also happened to be made of stone, and asked if Lundvar was at the inn. A young woman, a teenager barely coming into womanhood, directed Torgrim to a bald man in the same Lincoln green uniform of the guards, sitting at a table on the other side of the room.

"Master Lundvar," Torgrim greeted as he approached the guard. "May I buy you a drink?"

"Oh, by all means," Lundvar retorted. "Though, if you do, I'd be much obliged if you raised your drink with me in memory of my dear departed brother?"

"Aye," Torgrim nodded. He called for two drinks and after the shapely teenaged girl brought the drinks to their table, Torgrim held up his tankard. "To your brother."

"May he find peace in Sovngarde!" Lundvar said grimly, then downed his mug.

"So what happened to your brother?" Torgrim asked.

"He was a city guard, served the night's watch at the city gates," Lundvar began. "An honest man he, not like them lazy gargoyles that sleep through their shift and hope the King in Rags ain't cooking 'im for breakfast in the morning. Guarded the gates like a bloody draugr over his barrow, and only sheathed his sword when the sun finally crawled over the mountains in the east. Best damn soldier in all of the Reach, if not the best man in all of Skyrim."

"Sounds like a fine man, sir," Torgrim nodded.

"Aye, a fine man," Lundvar slurred. "If only more people in Markarth were this fine, there wouldn't be murders goin' about, not bein' brought to justice. But then..." He sighed. "...he too met his death under 'suspicious circumstances.' Ah, this city's gone up shit river with no paddle."

"Perhaps you could help me?" Torgrim asked. "I'm looking for the Shrine of Talos..."

"A fellow true Nord, I see," Lundvar grinned. "Though I wouldn't be sayin' that too loudly. We're still in 'loyalist' territory. The shrine's in the center of the city, beneath the Temple of Dibella. Why them Imperial milk-drinkers ain't torn it down is beyond me. Hey, while you're there, send one up for my brother, will you?"

"I also have something else to ask you," Torgrim continued. "There is a friend of mine who wants to play before the Jarl."

"Really?" Lundvar slurred. "Well then you'll have to tell your friend to get in line like all the rest. I can't help you and I won't help even if I could. I'm not like those Imperial milk-drinkers who can be bought off with a bit of coin or intimidated by threats. Just tell your friend to find Yngvar the Bard and see if he can get 'em on the list."

Torgrim nodded, gave Lundvar a friendly slap on the back, then walked over to Asteria.

"I'm going to the shrine to Talos to meet our little friend from the market," Torgrim stated. "You can stay here if you'd like."

"After what happened?" Asteria returned. "By the gods, I'm going with you!"

* * *

Torgrim and Asteria had no problem finding the Temple of Dibella, built upon a great spire of stone from the mountain's girth which had remained untouched through the years. Towards the bottom they went, finding a stairwell that cut into the heart of the rock spire, leading downward. There they went, finding a wide, circular room that, though obviously Dwemeri in design, held a great statue of a Nord warrior with a sword in hand, trampling upon a dragon underfoot.

"Glad you could make it," the stranger they had met in the streets said. They saw him by the foot of the great shrine, turning around to them. "I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after today, I'm running out of time. My name is Eltrys, and I'm here to help you."

"Help?" Torgrim asked.

"That murder in the market square today?" Eltrys began. "It wasn't an isolated incident. Killings have been happening for twenty years, ever since Ulfric Stormcloak was kicked out of Markarth. My father was one of the victims, but the guards just covered it up, said that nothing happened and that the killer was a madman. Everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out what happened ever since, then I got married. Have me a little one on the way soon. I wanted to give up for my child's sake, but then today, I was reminded that I can't let my child live in a world of fear."

"A noble goal," Torgrim nodded. "How can we help?"

"The woman who was killed was called Margret," Eltrys continued. "Everything about her screamed 'outsider'. Best place to start looking for clues about her would be at the Silver-Blood Inn. The murderer was a man called Weylin. I never knew much about him except that he worked with me in the silver smelters and lived in the Warrens."

"And who are the Forsworn?" Asteria asked.

"It's said that they lived in the Reach long before Nords came here," Eltrys explained. "During the Great War, they took over Markarth, but Ulfric Stormcloak drove them out. And somehow they're still here, and they're killing people."

"We've met a few of them on the way here," Torgrim stated. "They attacked us even though we did nothing."

"They have a long animosity towards the Nord people," Eltrys stated.

"There are many people in Tamriel with a vehement but justified hatred of the mongrel white race of men, half-elf," a haughty voice sneered.

Torgrim, Asteria and Eltrys turned about in surprise at the voice of the newcomer. It was a tall Altmer, clad in black robes fringed with gold: the colors of the Thalmor, the ruling class of the Aldmeri Dominion. He walked down the stairs they had just come down with an arrogant swagger and in his eyes was a look of utter derision, like a proud king talking to peasants who were beneath him.

"Who are you?" Torgrim asked.

"Whoever he is," Asteria muttered. "He's handsome."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, child," the elf stated. "And as for you, brute, my name is Ondolemar. I lead the Thalmor justicars garrisoned in the Reach, rooting out _your_ kind who dare violate the White-Gold Concordant with your heretical worship of the false _human_ god Talos."

"Look, we don't mean any trouble!" Eltrys spoke up.

"Do you, now?" Ondolemar chuckled. "But what would the ambassador say if she knew this? Here we have a Nord, a Colovian brat and a half-elf mongrel, all standing in a blasphemous shrine. I wonder what you were doing here."

"No, please!" Eltrys spoke, his voice filled with fear. "You've got the wrong man! I don't worship Talos!"

"I don't worship the Divines at all!" Asteria added. "Though I'd definitely worship you if you asked me to."

"Silence!" Ondolemar snarled. "Sycophancy may be becoming of you Imperials, but you have neither the stature of mind or body that I would find pleasing. You're far too short, fat and stupid to _ever_ be a match for even the meanest Altmer!" Asteria let out a barely perceptible whimper.

"Leave her alone!" Eltrys commanded.

"Or what?" Ondolemar returned. "You'll strike me? What I do is legal under the terms of the White-Gold Concordant. What you three are doing is punishable..." He drew an elvish blade, short according to their fashion and made of moonstone which looked like gold.

"...by death."

"Please, don't kill me!" Eltrys begged, kneeling down and holding his hands up in a gesture of pleading. "I have a wife, she's expecting a child!"

"If you're one of those ignorant Talos-worshipers," Ondolemar threatened. "Your little bastard will simply have to make do without you, I'm afraid."

"You touch him and you'll have to answer to _me!_" Torgrim growled, stepping in between Ondolemar and Eltrys.

"And just who do _you_ worship, big dumb brutish Nord, huh?" Ondolemar sneered. "The half-elf claims he doesn't worship Talos, the Colovian is infatuated by someone obviously better than herself, but what about you? Who do _you_ worship?"

Torgrim set his face like steel, unflinching before the tall elf. He was rather tall himself and twice as large as Ondolemar. If he wanted to, he could have easily taken this arrogant elf over his knee and broken his back. But his words taunted him: who would he be if he gave into temptation?

"I serve the Empire," Torgrim replied. "My loyalty and devotion are to the Emperor, Titus Mede II."

"The Empire?" scoffed Ondolemar. "The Dominion is the only thing keeping your little _human_ Empire on its feet. One word and it could fall." He sneered at them, then slowly walked back, keeping his back towards the stairs as he pointed a threatening finger at Torgrim.

"Remember this," he warned. "The Aldmeri Dominion is here, in Skyrim, and we will be watching you. If ever you come back to this place, I will have you executed, and there will be no emperor to halt you." He chuckled. "To the contrary, in fact; your beloved emperor will be the one signing your very death warrant."

"Never!" Torgrim threatened.

"Never?" laughed Ondolemar. "Your emperor signed the White-Gold Concordant: I can do anything I want, wherever I want, whenever I want, if I feel it is in the best interest of the Dominion..." He flashed a mocking grin across his face. "...and your Empire will be there to help me do exactly that. So you just watch your back...white human scum!"

With a whirl of the long tails of his coat, Ondolemar turned about and sauntered arrogantly up the stairs. Torgrim, meanwhile, turned to Asteria and Eltrys to see if they were alright.

* * *

"Hmm," Crixus mused, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "I didn't expect that of you."

"What do you mean?" Torgrim asked.

"A Thalmor agent insulting you and your people in a shrine to Talos?" Crixus chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't lash out and strike him down in the fury of your Nordic wrath!"

"They were only words," Torgrim stated. "And I have a family to protect. If I broke his neck then, it would be the end for them."

"It appears I underestimated you," Crixus stated. "It takes a strong-willed man to stomach that kind of abuse from an enemy within your power. I can respect that." He held up his empty mug. "Although, there is still something you haven't fulfilled. Last time we were together, you said you could drink my puny-arse under the table. I've just finished my second round and I'm not drunk enough!"

Torgrim laughed. "A true campaigner, I see. Still, you're drinking alto wine. You'll not get properly drunk off that, even if you drink twice as much mead as I'm drinking."

"So what happened next?" Crixus asked.

"We went to see Yngvar the Bard," Torgrim stated. "He said that he had a list of those hopeful bards who would be going to play before the Jarl of Markarth. Unfortunately, he wasn't willing to add her name on the list on such short notice. But..." Torgrim chuckled. "...Asteria has more skills than just lute-playing."

"Oh?" Crixus grinned.

Torgrim held up a piece of parchment which he had stowed away and placed it on the table. Crixus picked up the parchment and scrutinized it.

"The handwriting is atrocious," he commented. "This Yngvar the Bard, he was a Nord, right?"

"Aye, but I don't see what that has to..."

"So why do you bring this to me?" Crixus asked.

"Asteria picked it off Yngvar's person without him noticing," Torgrim stated. "We stopped in the Silver-Blood Inn to examine it, but she said that only a professional forger would be able to add her name to that list. Since your friend, the spell-sword Marcurio, said that he saw you hobnobbing with the Thieves Guild, I thought you might know someone who could add Asteria onto that list."

"Hmm," Crixus mused, examining the list. "Well, lucky for you and Asteria, I've grown a lot closer to the Thieves Guild while you were over in Markarth. I know someone over there who specializes in numbers. Perhaps he could put your friend's name on this list?"

Torgrim smiled. "It appears I underestimated _you_. There's a heart of gold beneath your old bones, my friend."

"I wouldn't count on it," Crixus chuckled. At that moment, one of the servers brought more mead and wine for the two off-duty soldiers. They toasted the Emperor's health, then took a gulp of the strong, bitter stuff.

"So," Crixus spoke. "After Asteria picked Yngvar's pocket..."

"We went to go searching about this strange woman Margret," Torgrim continued.

* * *

The Silver-Blood Inn, near the end of the day, was even busier than it had been earlier that afternoon. There also seemed to be a bit more character to the proprietors. The young woman Hroki was behind the counter, or rushing to serve food and drink to the newcomers, traveling merchants and off-duty guards, while two people Torgrim and Asteria assumed were her parents - they were older and moved in and out from behind the bar - shouted at each other over the top of the lulling sounds of the inn-crown. Torgrim shook his head: Inge was hardly this vehement, even when she became cranky while carrying their children. Nevertheless, Torgrim made his way to the bar, where the man, a balding Nord with silver hair, was telling the young woman Hroki to attend some tables.

"Good bartender," Torgrim stated. "I would like to ask you a few questions."

"Do I look like the kind of man with time on his hands for questions?" the man groaned. "I have a busy inn to run and my wife is constantly on my ass about every little thing!" He leaned in and muttered. "She thinks I've let this inn go."

"You _have_, Kleppr!"

"Shut up, Frabbi!" Kleppr roared. "I wasn't talking to you!"

"You were talking _about_ me, you double-tongued old codger!" Frabbi shouted back.

"No I wasn't, you hagraven!" Kleppr stated. A middle-aged Nord woman with blond hair going white walked past the bar, one finger raised in Kleppr's direction. He muttered under his breath. "If I had a rock, I'd bust your head, b*tch."

"I hear that too, you old bastard!"

"Is this a bad time?" Torgrim asked.

"Not at all," the woman Frabbi interjected. "Please, you have to forgive my husband. He's been a right ass-hole since our wedding day."

"And you were a venomous serpent's spawn from that point onward as well!" Kleppr added.

"Why do you tolerate him?" Asteria asked Frabbi.

"Mind your own business!" both Frabbi and Kleppr said as one.

"Could I get _any_ service here?" Torgrim growled. Several of the patrons looked towards the bar in the center of the room, at the large Nord who had raised his voice.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Kleppr chuckled. "Are you serious? I get more convincing threats from my wife!"

"Oh, don't mind him," Frabbi shook her head. "I'll help you. Unlike _some_ people here, I actually watch out for our guests."

"What was that, you venomous snake?" Kleppr called out from across the common room.

"Nothing, you pig-headed oaf!" Frabbi retorted. She turned back to Torgrim. "Now, what can I get you?"

"Actually," Torgrim stated. "I wanted to know about a woman named Margret."

"She's the outsider who was killed today?" Kleppr asked. "It's a pity _you_ weren't the one out there!"

"Are you talking about me?" Torgrim roared. Despite Kleppr also being a Nord, Torgrim was much larger.

"He was talking about _me_," Frabbi said through clenched teeth. "And I still have ears, ass-hole!"

"It's a pity they haven't turned to stone, just like your heart and everything else in town!" Kleppr stated.

"Your insults are getting poorer with age, old man!" Frabbi groaned.

"That's not the only thing getting worse with age in _our_ house!" Kleppr stated.

"Listen," Torgrim sighed. "I just want to know..."

"What, about Margret?" Frabbi asked. "Kept to herself, usually stayed in the room down the hall to the left."

"Can I rent the room?" Torgrim asked.

"You want to rent a dead woman's room?" Frabbi asked in disbelief.

"Let him have it!" Kleppr stated, now standing behind the bar. "That Colovian wench ain't using it."

"How 'bout I let _you_ have it?" Frabbi returned.

"Look, is the room available or not?" Torgrim asked.

Frabbi groaned. "Yes, it's available." She reached onto her necklace and removed the key to the room, handing it to Torgrim. "The instructions are on the night-stand. Gods, why do we have to be stuck here in Markarth, where everything's dwarven and requires instructions just to open the doors?"

"Why didn't _you_ come with instructions when I married you, woman?" Kleppr asked. "Instructions on how to stop you from talking?"

Torgrim and Asteria looked at each other, rolled their eyes, then made their way to the room in question. They placed the key, a squarish thing, into the center of the door, where an indentation allowed for the key to be placed. The door slid down and allowed them to enter the room. Like everything in Markarth, the room was made of stone. Even the bed, a single wide with blankets and a pillow upon it, was made of stone. There were a few wooden chairs and a dresser and a night-stand, but they were all made of old, rotting wood. Asteria sat down upon the stone bed, taking off her lute as she waited for a while.

"So, what are we looking for?" she asked.

"Anything that Margret might have left behind," Torgrim said as he made his way to the night-stand. There he found the paper of instructions about how to use Dwemer keys and open Dwemer chests, but nothing else of interest.

"Well, since it's late," Asteria stated. "And since we're both here..."

"I'm married," Torgrim commented. "And you're too young."

"That's not where I was going," Asteria shook her head.

"Oh?"

"How about a song?" she asked.

"Oh, I can't sing," Torgrim replied, lowering his face.

"Are you...blushing?" Asteria asked. "Come on, turn around. I wanna see." Torgrim held up his large hand over his face. "Come on, there's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm sure you can sing."

"How do you know?" Torgrim asked.

"One of my teachers," Asteria began. "Told me that I should think about gaining weight if I wanted to sing. He said that it helped me sing better, since most of the minstrels back in Cyrodiil are stouter: the ones who sing, that is."

"Are you saying I'm fat?" Torgrim asked as he began searching the dresser.

"You're bigger than me," Asteria stated. "Maybe it will be easier. Come on, don't tell me you never tried to sing along to some old Nordic folk song about heroes and swords and mighty deeds."

Torgrim sighed, then walked over to the stone bed. "There was _one_ song that I tried to sing when I was younger."

"What was it?"

"The song of the Dragonborn," Torgrim stated. "A hero who could save Skyrim from everything. If ever there were a time for a hero like the Dragonborn, it is now."

"I know that one!" Asteria pipped. "It's 'The Dragonborn Comes!' One of the first songs I learned when I came here. What with the civil war and everything, that's become a popular one." She picked up her lute and patted the side of her stony bed.

"What?" Torgrim asked.

"Come here," she said. "We're going to sing through this song right here and right now."

"But I can't sing," Torgrim retorted.

"There's no one here but me," Asteria replied. "And I promise I'll be nice. Come on, sit down and belt out a few lines." She placed her hand upon the fret-board of the lute with the other hand danced upon the strings like a frost-bite spider, sending out a calm yet strangely melancholy arpeggio. For a moment the only sound in the room was her playing, then she halted.

"Come on, sing," she said.

"I can't sing," Torgrim replied.

Asteria rolled her eyes. "Here, I'll sing and you sing along with me. It'll be alright." She began playing the arpeggios over again, then she began singing.

_Our hero, our hero  
Claims a warrior's heart  
I tell you, I tell you  
The Dragonborn Comes_

Asteria paused when she sang. At the second line, Torgrim's voice came in: deep and resonating like the booming of a giant or the rumble of thunder. Asteria smiled for a moment and almost forgot to keep on playing. All the minstrels and troubadours back home in Cyrodiil were high-pitched, straining to hit higher and higher notes (there were even rumors of castration among young hopefuls to keep their voices high and melodic like a woman's voice). Rare it was to find someone with a voice so low, deep and surprisingly soothing as the one from Torgrim's lips.

"You liar!" Asteria chuckled. "That was beautiful! Don't blush, you did well."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Torgrim replied.

"Well, as a bard myself, you were good," Asteria said as she rose from the bed and placed the lute on the stone table across from the bed. Just then she saw something lying on the ground under the night-stand to her left. After placing the lute gently down, she knelt down and picked up what appeared to be a book that had been placed under the night-stand.

"Can you read it?" Asteria asked.

"I'll try," Torgrim replied as he took the book and opened it up. Though he had a rudimentary knowledge of reading, there were still many larger words which confounded him. There were mercifully few such words in this book and those that there were, Asteria helped Torgrim read.

"It appears to be a journal," he began. "Not sure where to begin."

"Try the end," Asteria stated. "Maybe we'll find something there."

"Ah, here's the end," Torgrim stated, thumbing through the book until he found it. "Dated the Twentieth Day of First Seed. That was just yesterday. '_Meeting at the...Treasury House later today. Took them long enough. These people act like they own everything. Thonar Silver-Blood is the younger brother, but he's...obviously the one in charge. Makes all the deals, bullies the local...landowners into selling to him. Even employs that wispy girl at the door to deter 'trouble-makers' like me._

"'_General Tullius is growing impatient, but I'll bring back the deed to Cidnha Mine. On my life, I won't allow a family of rebel...sympathizers to own the prison to the most notorious criminals of the Reach. They say no one escapes from Cidhna Mine: why? Is it_ really _that secure? Maybe I've played my hand too soon by rushing the confrontation with Thonar. There are shadows around every corner in this city and I know I'm being watched._'"

At that very moment, there was a fierce pounding upon the door. Both Torgrim and Asteria jumped at the urgency and force behind the knocking: whoever was on the other side meant business and was in no mood for complacency. Asteria leaped off the stone bed, picked up the instructions from the table and then ran to the doorway, made out of the coppery metal frequently used by the Dwemer.

"Over here," Asteria said, gesturing to a keyhole in the other side of the door just the same size as the one on the outside. Torgrim got up and placed the key in the door-hole. The door slid open and there stood, to their surprise, one of the city guards. His sword was drawn and in his hand, the point aimed at them.

"You!" the guard said, speaking to Torgrim. "I've seen you snooping around, asking questions. Back off! You don't want to know what happens to trouble-makers in Markarth!"

"Listen, I don't want any trouble," Torgrim replied.

"Well, trouble's finding you," the guard venomously retorted. "And that's just as bad. This is your last warning, outsider. _We_ keep the peace here in Markarth. Stay out of our business, or you'll find out the hard way why no one escapes from Cidhna Mine!"

* * *

**(AN: Man, the way this part of the story is going so far, I could pace this little part out over four chapters. I may have written the name of Torgrim's wife and children [a son and a daughter] somewhere else in _The Dragon and the Bear_, but i can't for the love of Talos find it! I trust my dedicated readers may find their names for me and post that in the reviews.)  
**

**(Also, it was fun writing dialogue for Kleppr and Frabbi. It reminded me of Marie and Frank from _Everybody Loves Raymond_ or Gladys and Abner from _Bewitched_...just, well, more explicit. Yeah, this story just went from "omg, Forsworn and Thalmor are dicks" to "_Skyrim_ sitcom" to creepy mystery.)**


	30. A Nose for Trouble

**(AN: Well, anonymous guest reviewer, you seem to be the only one so far. While penning _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and _The Dragon and the Bear_, everyone was like "omg, we hate Crixus, why won't he just die?" [they didn't like Eirik, mind you, but they hated Crixus even more, apparently]. But then i pen this and everyone so far has been pro-Crixus, so you're the first.)**

* * *

**Torgrim's Tale Part III: A Nose for Trouble**

It was morning the next day. Neither Torgrim nor Asteria slept much that night, the guard's threat still hanging over their heads like a shroud of darkness. Nevertheless, once morning rose and they partook of breakfast, Torgrim and Asteria decided that they would go on about their business. Remembering what Eltrys said about the murderer Weylin, Torgrim decided that he would visit the Warrens.

"You might want to stay back," he said as they made their way there. "If anyone sees you and puts you with me, there could be trouble. I wouldn't want that to happen to you."

"Thanks," Asteria smiled. "But I can handle myself just fine."

"No no," he shook his head. "I'll go by myself this time. We're being watched, so I don't want you to be caught up in this."

"Can I do anything?" she asked.

"Yes," Torgrim nodded. "You can stay alive and out of trouble while I ask around."

Fishing around in his belt pocket, Torgrim produced the letter that Asteria had picked off of Yngvar.

"If I don't return," he stated. "Give this to a man in Solitude by the name of Crixus. He'll help you get what you want."

Asteria chuckled. "You sound like you're going to your grave."

"Well," Torgrim shrugged. "The way Frabbi talked about the Warrens when I asked her where they were, it certainly seems like a grave."

* * *

Torgrim found the place burrowed into a hill on the south-side of the city. It was essentially an old Dwemer tunnel that was part of the old city back in the day. Now it was dark and gloomy, the air thick and foul and the floors filled with sickly people and homeless, huddled under blankets or crouched in corners like spiders. Torgrim walked alone, not using a torch or lantern to disguise his goings. Since he learned that the guards were watching him, he didn't want to be drawing more attention to himself than he already had.

While walking through the darkness, he heard a voice call out to him. A lantern was uncovered and a short, red-haired man with black soot on his face stepped out of the shadows.

"What do you want, outsider?" he asked. "The Warrens ain't the place for your kind."

"My kind?" Torgrim returned.

"Nobody comes down here except the sick and the laborers," the man stated. "So you must want something if you're down here in the Warrens. What is it?"

"Do you know someone called Weylin?"

"Of course I do," the red-haired man sneered. "I know everyone who sleeps down here. I'm the one who passes the keys around. Shame about what happened yesterday. Oh well, I suppose he don't need the key anymore."

"I do," Torgrim stated.

The red-haired man scoffed. "And you'd think I'd just _give_ it to you if you asked for it?"

"I wasn't asking," Torgrim retorted, taking a step towards the short man.

"Fine, fine," sighed the red-haired man. "No need to get upset. Gods know I have plenty of problems of my own to deal with." He removed a squarish key from his pocket and gave it to Torgrim, then pointed to the door at the far end of the tunnel on the right. Torgrim went down there and found a bare room with nothing but a thread-bare, dirty, soggy and quite possibly lice-infested bed-roll. Next to it was a candle that had long since gone out and a note that was left opened on the ground. The dim light meant that Torgrim could not read it here and now, so he scooped up the note and placed it in his pocket.

Swiftly Torgrim made his way out of the Warrens. But no sooner had he left the shadow of the Warrens when a fist suddenly struck him in the face. Due to his size and strength, the blow was not enough to send him down, but he was definitely enraged. Turning around, he saw a Breton, rather tall and broad-shouldered for a Breton, wearing leather armor and a mohawk.

"What the..." Torgrim groaned.

"You've been digging around where you don't belong," he returned. "It's time you learned a lesson."

Torgrim spat blood out of his mouth and onto the stones between them. "You first, milk-drinker."

The Breton jabbed thrice into Torgrim's chest, but he was ready for these blows now and only flinched backwards after the third blow. A wild swing to Torgrim's head was intercepted by Torgrim's massive hand, which seized the Breton's fist and pushed it back into his face. The Breton staggered back, anger in his eyes. He swung again, but this time Torgrim strode aside, sending him tumbling back.

By now a small crowd had gathered around the two and were cheering, shouting and casting bets. Torgrim did not pay any mind, his eyes were on the large Breton. He was a mountain of a man, Torgrim Stone-crusher, but even mountains could be scaled. His full and undivided attention had to be on his opponent. Again he jabbed, but Torgrim held his wrists in place, blocking each blow. Another full lunge, but Torgrim moved aside, then with one hand pushed the Breton back as if to send him down.

But he wasn't as weak as all that and the attempt only angered him. Again he charged at Torgrim, but the large Nord sent a mighty blow to the Breton's chest, cracking ribs and doubling him over. Another blow like a hammer struck the Breton in the stomach, sending him down to his knees. One hand he wrapped around the Breton's neck while the other one pulled his head up.

"Ugh, mangy piece of shite!" groaned the beaten Breton.

"Who sent you?" Torgrim asked.

"Someone who doesn't like you asking questions," the Breton evaded.

"Talk or I send you to the gods!" roared Torgrim.

"Okay! Okay!" the Breton gasped. "Nepos! Some old man named Nepos the Nose hands out the orders. He told me to make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know, I swear!"

"Where can I find him?" Torgrim asked.

"Like I know," the Breton groaned. "He has people to tell people to do things for him. Now let me go, pit-bait!"

Torgrim threw the defeated Breton towards the Warrens, then made his way back to where he parted with Asteria.

"Gods, you're hurt!" she exclaimed.

"It's just a scratch," Torgrim replied, wiping blood from off his lip.

"A brawl?" Asteria asked.

"Someone wants to keep whatever's going on a secret," Torgrim stated.

"Did you at least find something?"

Torgrim removed the letter from his pocket and examined it. There was little written therein, just a hasty scrawl that said only this: _You've been chosen to strike fear into the hearts of the Nords. Go to the market-square tomorrow. You'll know what to do._ The letter was signed '_N_'.

"I think this might be Nepos," Torgrim stated.

"Nepos? Who's Nepos?" Asteria asked.

"He's the one who told Weylin to kill Margret yesterday," Torgrim replied. "I think we should take this information back to Eltrys."

* * *

They made their way to the shrine of Talos clandestinely, making sure that nobody was watching them when they turned to go down instead of up to the Temple of Dibella. Asteria made a note to tell Torgrim not to act conspicuous when he looked, for that would draw just as much attention as if they announced their intentions.

"First pick-pocketing," Torgrim jested. "Then you know how to sneak your way past unfriendly eyes? Are you a bard or a thief?"

The look Asteria gave Torgrim was cold and discerning. "I need to know some things in order to survive on the road," she replied. "You'd be surprised how many people take advantage of bards and minstrels on the road. They think that we don't need money to survive. 'Oh, you play for the counts of Cyrodiil? Surely you have enough money to spare an old friend.' It costs to buy passes into Skyrim, to find horse hair or saber-cat guts at an alchemist's shop if a string breaks, to find a place to spend the night."

"I'm sorry," Torgrim replied. "I didn't know."

"Just forget it," Asteria returned.

Down the stairs they went, coming at last to the shrine of Talos. To their relief, Ondolemar was not present and Eltrys was there waiting for him.

"Thank the Eight!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know how much longer I could wait here. That Thalmor might be back any time now."

"We have evidence," Torgrim replied. "Thonar Silver-Blood and someone named Nepos the Nose."

"Thonar is the youngest member of the Silver-Blood Family," Eltrys stated. "But everyone knows that he runs everything in Markarth. Owns the Treasury, where my wife Rhiada works for the family. But..." He chuckled. "...what's this about old Nepos?"

"He sent Weylin to kill Margret," Torgrim said.

"I can hardly believe that," Eltrys dismissed. "Old Nepos has been in Markarth forever. Everyone knows him, and he's well-respected among the natives of the Reach. He lives up on the north side of town, the dry-side as it's called." He removed from his belt a small bag of gold. "Here, for your troubles."

"So what should we do next?" Torgrim asked.

"Maybe Thonar might be more apt to sharing some secrets with a fellow Nord," Eltrys said. "You'll find him at the Treasury, across the street from the Silver-Blood Inn. Be careful with Nepos, though. If he's in on these murders, he might be taking orders of his own."

"I think we should all be careful," Torgrim replied. "Markarth is not a safe place anymore."

"It wasn't a safe place when I was a child," Eltrys returned. "But thank you for the heads up."

Torgrim nodded, then he and Asteria made their way back up the stairs.

From the outside, the Treasury House looked like any other building in Markarth: built into the stone with a Dwemer door in the entrance. Like the Silver-Blood Inn, the Dwemer doors were bolted onto the ground and adjusted so that one could merely push them open. In Torgrim and Asteria went and saw a room with a stone table of three sides. Two tall pillars were on either side of the table and upon them were braziers which gave light to the room. As the two passed into the room, they saw an old man and woman with brooms, sweeping the stone floors. At the stone desk, there was a young woman with blond hair, olive skin, short of stature and thin-bodied. Coming up to the desk, Torgrim noticed that her dress was slightly bulging: this must be Rhiada, Eltrys' wife.

"A little early for wages, isn't it?" she asked. "What's your business here?"

"I need to speak to Thonar Silver-Blood," Torgrim replied.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Rhiada replied. "Master Silver-Blood is busy and cannot be disturbed. Important business, you know. Running Markarth can be a trial."

"Running Markarth?" a voice asked haughtily. Turning around, Torgrim saw a Nord woman dressed in fine robes approached the bar.

"Oh, Lady Silver-Blood!" Rhiada exclaimed, lowering her face. "I didn't see you approach!"

"I didn't know my husband was paying you to chat," Lady Silver-Blood sneered. "Perhaps a cut in your wages would encourage you to keep your mind on your work!"

"Yes, Lady Silver-Blood!" Rhiada nodded, returning to the ledger on the stone desk.

"And you," the Silver-Blood woman said, looking up at Torgrim. "You're too poor for me and the Treasury, so piss off."

Torgrim turned aside and left out through the Treasury doors, with Asteria following swiftly after him. Once outside, the large Nord roared in frustration.

"Dead end," he said frustratedly.

"Wait a minute, what about Nepos?" Asteria asked. "We still haven't investigated him. Let's go there."

Torgrim nodded.

* * *

The house belonging to Nepos the Nose was on the northern side of the city up a flight of stone steps. Just before the door, Torgrim halted and turned to his traveling companion.

"Do you still have Yngvar's list?" he asked.

"Mhm," she nodded.

"I need you to stay here," he stated. "I have a feeling it might get ugly inside."

"What? No!" Asteria objected. "I've come this far, I don't want to be left in the dark! Where you go, I go!"

"I'm not entirely sure about this little investigation," Torgrim shook his head. "Already someone has died, the guards have threatened us and I got into a fight over this. Someone is going through a lot of work to keep all of this covered up, and I want to find out who. But I can't risk you."

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Asteria noted.

"Still," Torgrim stated as he made his way to the door. "Just stay here."

Torgrim walked up to the door and knocked upon it. For a moment there was no sound, only the howl of wind this high above the city and the distant clanging of a blacksmith hard at work. At last the door opened and a short, young Breton woman answered the door. She looked upon Torgrim with disdain and distrust.

"What's your business here?" she demanded.

"I'm here to see Nepos," Torgrim replied.

"Oh?" she asked. "We haven't been expecting you."

"It's about Weylin," Torgrim stated.

The woman paused, then narrowed her eyes. "Even if we was expecting you, the master of the house is old and needs his rest. Come back some other time."

Then from deeper in the house, an old voice was heard calling out from somewhere within.

"It's alright, Uaile," the voice said. "Let him in."

She looked over her shoulder, then turned back to Torgrim with a disgruntled "hmph" and a rise of both of her eyebrows. "I guess he wants to speak with you. Go on in, you heard him."

She stepped aside and allowed Torgrim passage into the house. It looked very much like the rooms at the Silver-Blood Inn, stone with Dwemer copper fixtures, cookware and chairs all over the room. To the left Torgrim saw two men, one sweeping with a broom and the other at a table, apparently preparing food with a knife. To his right there was a large hearth with a roaring fire. Before the hearth sat an old man on a wooden chair, wrapped in blankets. The old man looked even older than the Greybeards of High Hrothgar: his skin clung to his bones like old rags, his eyes had deep-set sacks hanging beneath them and, true to his name, his nose was very large.

"Please forgive my housekeeper," said the old man, his voice in weary, gasping rasps. "She is a bit overprotective of me. What can I do for you, stranger?"

Torgrim knelt before the elder's chair, looking at him with as much scrutiny as he could muster. The old man did not seem like the kind of person who would authorize a murder, but those eyes were so old, full of the memory of horrors, and so very tired.

"Are you Nepos?" Torgrim asked.

"Yes, I am," Nepos nodded slowly.

"There was an incident in the market-square yesterday," Torgrim began. "A man named Weylin killed a woman, shouting about the Forsworn. He had a note in his possession: it was written by you, telling him to do this."

"Ah," Nepos nodded. "So you're the one. Quite the bloodhound you've proven to be: and you've sniffed me out. I did it." Torgrim's eyes widened and he leaned back in surprise.

"Yes, I did," Nepos nodded again. "I've been doing this for twenty years: sending the young to their deaths in the name of the Forsworn."

"Why?" Torgrim asked.

"My king told me to," Nepos replied.

"Torygg died last month," Torgrim returned.

"I do not mean the Nordic pretender," Nepos shook his head. "I am talking about the one true king of the Reach, my lord Madanach." He sighed, then shifted himself in his chair, apparently to find a more comfortable spot. He then turned to Torgrim and thus continued.

"During your Empire's war with the elves," he began. "My king declared that the time was come to drive the Nords out of our ancestral land. And we did that, and held the Reach as our own. Then Ulfric Stormcloak came and drove us out: those who did not flee were executed, save for myself, a handful of others, and my king. Madanach, the King in Rags; the man who owned all of the Reach from Markarth to Rorikstead. I do not know how he lives, but he does, stoking the passions of the downtrodden, directing their anger against the Nords of this city. And from Cidhna Mine, no less! The irony."

Torgrim cast a wary eye to his right. He saw the two men eying him with distrust. He turned back to old Nepos.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"I'm an old man," Nepos sighed. "I don't care about land or race wars or any of that anymore. I'm too tired to care about anything other than the orders of my king. He sends me his messages from the prison, and I carry them out without question. Besides..." The old man grinned in such a way that cold shivers went up and down Torgrim's spine.

"What makes you think you'll be getting out of here alive?" he asked. "Everyone here are Forsworn, including my lovely Uaile. You're trapped." At this, the old man pushed himself up out of the chair, brandishing a dagger in one hand and a cane in the other. Torgrim turned and saw the two other servants striding towards him, both of them wielding knives. From the doorway, he saw Uaile approach, a knife in her hand.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Torgrim asked.

"Do you think," gasped Nepos. "That I'll let Thonar's spy discover our little insurrection? The time of the snow-backs is over. The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

At this, Nepos charged at Torgrim. He easily took the old man in his arms and threw him onto one of the two servants. The second soldier swung his knife at Torgrim, but he seized the hand with the knife and squeezed tightly. His other hand struck the Breton in the face once, twice, three times until he collapsed. Just then from the dark hallway came Uaile, a knife in her hand. Faster than Torgrim could even comprehend, a shadowy figure struck down the woman from behind. But before Torgrim could see who his rescuer was, there was a sharp, piercing pain from behind. Nepos had crawled up onto his knees and buried his knife in Torgrim's back. Another knife came sailing through the air and struck Nepos in the chest, sending him back down onto the ground. The next man got up, but Torgrim stomped on his chest, shattering his sternum and killing him in one blow.

"Torgrim, you're hurt!" Asteria exclaimed.

"And you disobeyed me!" Torgrim groaned.

"You might have been killed if I hadn't," she reminded him. Without so much as one more word, she pulled the dagger out of Torgrim's back and then began searching for something to bind the wound. It did not take long to find some clean linens in the house and before long, Torgrim could walk with a slight limp from the wound but was otherwise alright.

"You heard what happened?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Asteria nodded. "The Forsworn are killing people. Some kind of revenge against the Nords?"

Torgrim nodded, taking one last look at Nepos' house as they walked out the doors and closed them behind them. "It's not safe in Markarth anymore." He turned back to his traveling companion. "Listen, Asteria, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I am," she nodded.

"Listen," he began. "I want you to go back to the Treasury. Find Rhiada, the woman behind the counter. Get her out of the city, take her someplace safe. Old Hroldan, maybe. If I'm not there in three days time, I want you to leave without me. Take her to Morthal, ask about the house of Torgrim Stone-crusher. They know who I am there, they'll send you directions."

"Torgrim, you're starting to scare me," Asteria stated, her eyes wide with worry.

"This whole business is scary," Torgrim replied. "And I won't let two parents and their child be caught up in this. I have children of my own, and if something happened to them, or to Inge, I'd never be able to live with myself. We _have_ to do this!"

"So where are you going?" Asteria asked as Torgrim began hobbling down the stairs.

"To find Eltrys," he called back. "Tell him what's happened and then get him out of Markarth."

It was slow going down the stairs and through the streets, but Torgrim was strong and had shrugged off greater blows. It wouldn't continue to bother him if he kept moving. Down and down he went, coming at last to the Temple of Dibella: a single flight of stairs more and he would be back in the shrine of Talos. There was nothing for it: if Madanach could strike people from prison, it was safe to say that Eltrys, who was sneaking about quite a bit, might be targeted next. He had to get him out, regardless of what might happen afterwards. The safety of the family was tantamount in Torgrim's mind.

Down the stairs he went, but at the third step down he came to a halt. There, lying at the foot of the Talos statue, was the body of Eltrys. Worse than that, the shrine was also flanked by the people Torgrim did not want to see right now. It was not the rebels, nor the Thalmor; it was not even the Forsworn.

It was a small company of the Markarth city guards.

"Just couldn't keep your nose out of other people's business, could you?" asked the lead guard.

"What in Oblivion is this?" Torgrim asked.

"We warned you," the lead guard replied. "But you just had to cause trouble. Now we've got quite a mess on our hands: all the witnesses we have to silence, pay off all the people to pin these murders on you."

"On me?" Torgrim roared. "I didn't kill..."

"But who are they going to believe, huh?" the guard asked. "Some stranger stirring up trouble or the city-guards?"

"You've got it all wrong," Torgrim replied. "The Forsworn _are_ behind the killings!"

"You think you're the only one who knows that?" the guard asked. "We had a nice little deal going on between Thonar Silver-Blood and Madanach until you and Eltrys came along and ruined it."

"What did you do to him?" Torgrim shouted.

"Same thing we do to everybody else who wants to change things around here," the guard cryptically replied. "But as for you, a life sentence in Cidhna Mine should be more than enough to shut you up. You'll have plenty of time to talk to Madanach about his killings when you're down there."

"What if I resist?"

"Hah!" the guard shouted. "You? Resist us? You're big, but you're wounded. You wouldn't last more than a few minutes. So what's it gonna be, biggun'? Life in the mines or death with your co-conspirator?"

Torgrim sighed. At least he had sent Asteria to collect Rhiada and take her away. Gods willing, they had managed to escape while the city guards were preparing this ambush for him. They would go on without him and give his warmest regards to Inge, Thorvald and Inghild. Perhaps Rhiada and Eltrys' child would be allowed to live now, free of the terror of this place.

"I'll go with you," he sighed.

"You're never going to see the sun again, little man," taunted the guard. " You hear me? No one ever escapes Cidhna Mine! No one!"

* * *

**(AN: Nothing much to say about this chapter, since no reviews so far and i have no comments to make. Don't worry, one more chapter and then we'll be back in Crixus' story. Like i said, meandering narrative, just like my brother would like. Also, since he's the one who got after me all throughout _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ about not having Torgrim in the story then, i thought he deserved a little bit of page-time. Unlike Crixus, Torgrim is very much like Eirik, a lawful good heroic Nord character [and secretly a Talos-worshiper], he only found his calling in service to the Empire rather than against it.)**


	31. No Escape from Cidhna Mine

**(AN: For once i'm going to rage about something completely unrelated to my brother but still only slightly related to this story. I'm a big _DC_ fan [and am even planning a _Justice League/Avengers_ cross-over after i'm done with _Elder Scrolls_], and i'm rather pissed off that EVERYONE from comic makers to fans to Zach Snyder believe that Superman has no moral center, that he's a murderous, world-destroying time bomb just waiting to go off. But then, as if that "kill God to become god" mentality isn't bad enough, neither Batman nor Wonder Woman have even the temptation to go as crazy as they say Superman does, even though fans constantly state that Wonder Woman can single-handedly beat everyone in the Justice League. I asked the question and i shit you not, this racist remark is what i got: "All Kryptonians are conquerors.")**

* * *

**Torgrim's Tale Part IV: No Escape from Cidhna Mine**

Torgrim felt a bucket of water being thrown onto his face. Rousing from slumber, he saw an Orc's face leering down at him. Whether it was a male or a female, he did not know. All he knew was that it was ugly and there was disdain in his eyes.

"Wake up, pink-skin!" the Orc roared. "There's no resting in Cidhna Mine!"

"Wha..." Torgrim asked, trying to remember all that had happened.

"I said get up!" the Orc retorted. "You won't be resting your worthless pink hide in your cell in this prison, puny human! You work! You will mine silver ore until you vomit, piss and shit silver bars! Do you understand?"

"Yes," Torgrim groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. He realized that his traveling clothes were gone, stripped from him. Instead he was dressed in the same rags that the people in the Warrens had been wearing. He wondered if the clothes he had been given had not indeed once been worn by a former prisoner, as they reeked of blood and piss.

"Get a move-on!" the Orc shouted. "Or do I have to start breaking toes?"

"I'll go," Torgrim replied. Then suddenly there was a loud crack and a whip broke upon his back.

"No back-talk, slave!" roared the Orc. "When Urzoga gra-Shugurz gives you an order, you keep your head bowed and you do as I say in silence!"

"Please, you gotta help me!" Torgrim spoke up. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"That's what they _all_ say!" Urzoga roared as she whipped Torgrim again.

"How long until I'm free?" Torgrim asked, though he knew immediately that he had spoken the wrong thing.

"Freedom?" Urzoga laughed, a hideous sound that was a mockery of laughter. "You don't get to walk free. The Silver-Blood family have ordered a life sentence for your worthless hide!" Another crack of the whip. "You're never going to see the sun again, milk-drinker! Now get moving!" Again the whip cracked upon Torgrim's back.

The Orc shoved Torgrim against the rock wall while it opened the door to Torgrim's cell. Once opened, Torgrim was thrust out into a dark cave hall illuminated dimly by the flicker of torches. Once outside, another guard threw a pick-ax into Torgrim's hands and shoved him towards a long, crowded line of prisoners with bent backs and pick-axes in their hands. The guards were leading them down deeper into the darkness.

"Hey, big fellow," a voice whispered nearby. Torgrim looked to his left and saw a white-haired, thin man hobbling next to him. "I'm sticking with you."

"Why?" Torgrim asked.

"I've been here for quite a while," the man replied. "Nobody messes with you in prison if you've got a big, strong fellow on their side."

"So I'll be able to work in peace?" Torgrim asked.

"Not exactly," the man replied.

At this, a man approached Torgrim, standing in his way.

"Look what we have here," the newcomer sneered. "You don't belong here, snow-back."

"Tell that to the Silver-Bloods," Torgrim replied, keeping his eyes down.

Suddenly, the newcomer kicked Torgrim in the groin. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, cunt!" he roared.

"Braig, take it easy on him," the old man interjected, but the newcomer Braig threw the old man aside and stood before Torgrim, hatred in his eyes.

"Your kind took my daughter from me," he glowered. "Because of that, I make you my b*tch!"

"You can try," Torgrim retorted.

"Whitey wants to fight, eh?" Braig laughed maniacally as he took a swing at Torgrim. But Torgrim threw the Breton down and punched him in the face.

"Get off me, you white cunt!" Braig roared.

"What was that you were going to do to me?" Torgrim spat as he threw down another punch down upon the foe.

"B*tch!" Braig roared.

"Break it up!" the voice of Urzoga roared, then suddenly the whip came down over their backs. Torgrim rose up, but Braig kicked him in the shins.

"That's enough!" Urzoga shouted.

"B*tch, you don't own me!" Braig returned. "When the King comes into his own, you're the first one to die!"

"Keep talking," Urzoga retorted. "Give me a reason to gut you, half-elf pig!"

From behind, the old man pulled Torgrim back into line. "That wasn't a wise choice."

"I'm not going to let some puny little man attack me for something I didn't do!" Torgrim retorted.

"Another one, eh?" muttered the old man. "It's all the same: 'I was innocent, but they threw me into Cidhna Mine.' You're not the first one to say that and you won't be the last."

"What do you mean?" Torgrim asked as he rose to his feet.

"I was just as innocent as you were when me master was killed one night," the old man began. "I knew there'd be no justice for me: Nords don't believe in justice for those who aren't of their race."

"I'm a Nord!" Torgrim stated.

"Am I supposed to pity you because you're in here?" the old man replied. "Just the same, I ran away because I knew you Nords would put me in prison just the same. But I escaped, innocent just as you were. For the first murder, at least."

"What about Braig?" Torgrim asked.

"Went mad after the Nords took his daughter's life during the uprising," the old man said. "You see? Your kind aren't as innocent as you'd like to believe."

"I wasn't the one who accused you or killed Braig's daughter!" Torgrim replied.

"Doesn't matter," the old man said. "You share the same skin as they do, that makes you one of them."

"Why are you talking to me, then?" Torgrim asked.

"I have my own reasons," the old man returned coldly.

* * *

An hour later and Torgrim was sent deep into a dimly-lit mine-shaft, where he spent the next countless hours hacking away at the rock, looking for silver veins. Though Torgrim was familiar with the sound of picking and had done more than his fair share of work in the Stonehills mine, the conditions in Cidhna Mine were beyond horrible. The air was thick and stuffy and ever so often someone would fall down, coughing and retching. Several guards came and dragged them away, only to bring another into their place and shove silver into their place.

The old man, whose name was Uraccen, was placed next to Torgrim. Despite their previous animosity, the old man was still thankful to have someone on his side who was as strong as Torgrim.

"People don't live long in the mines," he stated. "If you want my advice, keep your head down and do your time. Too many end up with a shiv in their guts over skooma."

"There's no chance of freedom for me," Torgrim added as he struck the rock. "I was...given a life sentence."

"Ah, you're the new lifer, eh?" asked Uraccen. "Tough luck. The guards did you in but good."

"I can't stay in a mine all of my life," Torgrim returned. "I'm a soldier in the Imperial Legion and I have a family to look after."

"Just let them go," Uraccen replied. "The sooner you forget about them the better."

"How can you say that?" Torgrim returned. "Is it because I'm a Nord and you want me to suffer?"

"I had to let my family go too!" Uraccen shouted. A few eyes looked at them from the workers as well as from the taskmasters. Both Uraccen and Torgrim turned back to their work.

"I had a daughter," sighed the old man. "Uaile her name was. I wonder what's become of her now. Down here you lose all track of time."

Torgrim fell silent and struck the rock harder than before. He remembered that name from yesterday or earlier that day - how much time had passed since the guards knocked him over the head in the shrine of Talos to waking up in prison, he knew not exactly. The one named Uaile had attacked him during the investigation at Nepos' house. Now here he was, standing next to the woman's father, bearing news that his daughter was dead. Surely he would hate him more now than before if he said a single thing. With a frustrated groan, Torgrim attacked the stone again with his pick.

"Of course," Uraccen continued. "If you were a Breton, I'd tell you to look for Madanach. He might be..."

"Madanach's here?" Torgrim asked.

"He won't see you," Uraccen stated, shaking his head. "He only sees who he wants to see."

"Where can I find him?"

"Just look for the Orc with the white face-paint," Uraccen said. "Borkul the Beast. But I recommend that you don't go looking for him, though. Borkul's not the time to trifle with. The last person who went to him got his arm ripped off and beaten to death with the bloody end."

"I'm not going to sit here in the dark for the rest of my life," Torgrim stated firmly.

* * *

Once Torgrim began collecting a pile of rubble, he placed down his pick-ax and picked up his burlap sack. Slowly he began picking up the rocks and shoving them into the sack, until he got a load he could carry. With the load of rubble in hand, he made his way through the mines, following the trail of people with rubble sacks on their backs. Through the dark mine tunnels Torgrim went, walking endlessly uphill it seemed. At the top, most of the prisoners were exhausted: only Torgrim, who had only been here recently, still had strength. But that was his curse, as just then the whip came down upon his back.

"So," he heard Urzoga's voice taunting him. "You think you're better than your fellow prisoners, do you? Well, we'll give you plenty of work to bend your back."

Again the whip came down as Torgrim tried to rise up. Once, twice, three times the whip came as he picked up his sack and carried on. At last he came to a wide area with more torches than the deeper mine shafts. There were two lines here, one with those going to the surface to deposit rubble in a large pile, and those going back to continue mining. Across from his line, Torgrim saw a large Orc with white face-paint guarding a door at the other end. Torgrim made his way to the pile and dropped off the rubble, then made his way back to the line. Onward he went, then stepped out of line just as he was approaching the large Orc.

It was then that Torgrim realized just how large the Orc really was: as tall as an Altmer and easily as large as Torgrim. His arms were bound in what looked like bones lashed together by some foul-smelling leather and the ends near his hands sharpened to points. His face, of course, was a mask of white face-paint which made him look like a walking corpse, one of the fabled draugr from the ancient Nord tombs.

"What are you looking at?" the Orc grumbled.

"Where's Madanach?" Torgrim asked.

"No one sees the King," replied the Orc. "Unless they pay the toll."

"Toll? What toll?" Torgrim asked.

"One shiv," the Orc stated, waving one large finger in Torgrim's face.

"Do you even need one?" Torgrim queried, examining the Orc's muscles and ripped chest: despite the rumors that he had heard from Dunmer in the Winking Skeever, the Orc's breast was like the breast of any man, not the six tits of a pig.

"For shaving," chuckled the Orc, and Torgrim once again caught a sight of the leather hide strapping the bones to his wrists. The stink was enough to knock him down, but it reminded him of something extremely foul. Almost like a man before bath night on Loredas evening.

"I don't have time for this," Torgrim sighed.

"Well, then," the Orc sneered. "I don't have time for you."

"Let me pass!" Torgrim roared.

"Or what?"

"How about this?" Torgrim asked, throwing his sack down to the ground. "A fight. If I lose, I'll go get you your shiv. If I win, you let me pass."

"Hmph," the Orc replied with a snort. "Looks like the new meat needs to be broken in." He cracked his neck, then his knuckles, then dropped into a fighting stance, arms raised for battle. "Bring it on!"

* * *

"Really?" Crixus asked. "What's the point of this story anyway?"

"What do you mean?" Torgrim asked.

Crixus sighed. "Well, you're here, sharing a drink with me." He held up his cup. "So obviously you got out of Cidhna Mine. Kind of puts the damper on that whole 'no one escapes from Cidhna Mine' business, doesn't it? I mean, where's the excitement, the suspense, the risk of danger? I already know how it's going to end!"

"Yes," Torgrim nodded. "I did defeat Borkul the Beast. It wasn't easy, though. He hit hard, almost as hard as me, if not harder."

"But you still beat him," Crixus pointed out.

"Are you going to criticize every point of this story or are you going to listen already?" Torgrim grumbled.

"Whatever," Crixus rolled his eyes as he drained his cup and asked for more. "Are we almost done?"

"Almost," Torgrim nodded. "It seemed that none of the other guards wanted to mess with Borkul, because they never tried to pull us apart. I fought him until he couldn't stand, then he let me hobble into the door with just as many bruises as I had given him."

"Hobbled?" Crixus asked in disbelief. "You hobbled into the door?"

"I was already weak from being stabbed in the back by Nepos," Torgrim continued. "Having that wound beaten back open didn't make my life any easier. Listen to me now, Crixus, because here is where the story is about to get very interesting. Here is where I met the King in Rags."

A server brought Crixus more wine, which he sipped as he leaned in. "I'm listening."

* * *

The door led to a dark tunnel cut into the rock. At the end of the tunnel there was a room, dimly lit by one candle which cast light only on the table upon which it sat. Torgrim halted for a moment while he heard footsteps before him. Then a hand appeared out of the darkness and lifted the candle off of the table.

"Well well," a deep, menacing voice spoke from the shadows. "The Nords turn on one of their own, now. Look at you, a wild animal, betrayed and caged by your own people."

Suddenly a face appeared from out of the shadows, leering wolf-like at Torgrim from the candlelight. What color the old man's hair had been was long gone, replaced by old, frizzled gray that made him look even more like a wolf. His eyes also seemed to have lost their color, the irises now all black to eat up all the light they could possibly find in this dark pit.

"Madanach," Torgrim stated.

"What do you want, beast?" the King in Rags asked. "I'm a busy man."

"Busy?" Torgrim asked, looking towards the dark at where the desk had been. "You seem quite comfortable in here."

"Comfortable?" Madanach roared. "This hole is hardly fit to house a rat! I deserve the stone chair in Understone Keep, my birthright! Your kind took that all away from me, whitey. So don't come here with your white, privileged attitude and say that _I_ am comfortable in this prison cell!"

"Deserve?" Torgrim asked. "You tried to kill me."

"Oh?" Madanach asked. "And who are you but just another white Nord, deserving only of death? You got in my way, and I wasn't about to let Thonar Silver-Blood's spies discover my little insurrection."

"I'm not a spy!" Torgrim retorted.

"You're a Nord, aren't you?" Madanach asked. "You're one of them."

"I'm not the one who put you in here!" Torgrim shouted.

"Bullshit!" Madanach retorted. "You Nords are all the same, all bloody-thirsty conquerors who take land from those who owned it first over a mountain of bodies. You know, before your wretched kind came here to be a blight upon this beautiful land with your white curse, the Reach belonged to _my_ people, _my_ ancestors! But mercilessly slaughtering the Snow Elves in the east wasn't enough for _your_ kind: you had to have _all_ of Skyrim. So you stole the Reach from its rightful owners."

"That was thousands of years ago!" Torgrim said through clenched teeth.

Madanach snorted. "Of course _your_ kind would forget. You kill so many innocents, you lose track of just how many you've slaughtered. But the Reachmen, the Forsworn, so-called 'mad' men of the Reach, we _never_ forget." Madanach carried the candle over into the darkness and another one was lit, now shedding enough light to vaguely illuminate Madanach's silhouette.

"More than twenty years ago," he continued. "We had it all. _I_ had it all within my hands. I had driven the pretender Igmund out of _my_ land and took my rightful place as King of the Reach. It was just the right time, your Empire off fighting the elven oppressors, leaving the _real_ oppressors open to retribution. And strike back we did! Every man, woman and child who did not bend the knee to my will was cut down. Every Nord who disobeyed my law was killed instantly. No mercy for the white scum!"

"You're pretty pale yourself," Torgrim stated.

In one swift motion, Torgrim was now pinned against the stone wall, a shiv pressed up against his neck where the under portion of his beard ended.

"I am a Breton, King of the Forsworn!" Madanach seethed. "Call me white again and I'll kill you here and now as you deserve." Slowly he backed off, but as he vanished into the darkness, Torgrim had the distinct impression that the knife was still in his hand.

"There are some," he continued. "Who say that my reign was peaceful, that I ushered in a new age of peace and tolerance between Nord and Forsworn." He chuckled. "The truth is a funny thing, though. You see, there's no one truth, only what each of us see and believe is true. Arrianus Arius, the Imperial scholar who lived through my reign and the Markarth slaughter and later wrote the book _The Bear of Markarth_, you see, his truth was that he had a low regard for Nords before he came to my city. It was also that, being in my realm, he could not write a thing against me or I could kill him. It never came down to threats, though: he was always willing to buy anything I threw at him. Tell him that some of the leading families in Markarth were brutal tyrants who own slaves and beat them half to death and he had no problem accepting that whole families had to die. That was simply his truth." The old man sighed and Torgrim could tell, even in the darkness, that he became grim and angry.

"Then Ulfric Stormcloak came to Markarth following the war. He made friends with the pretender Igmund and Thonar Silver-Blood. You see, I had killed Thonar's father and mother and he wanted revenge. Igmund wanted his throne and Ulfric was angry at having been captured by the elves, shamed for allowing the Imperial City to fall and eager to bring back the worship of his false Nordic god. They all had a bone to pick with me or something to prove to themselves: I was an easy scapegoat. It was a swift attack, precisely struck, considering it was led by a Nord. But, I suppose, he must have learned something in the Imperial Legion. He slew my people and then ordered my execution, but Thonar would have none of it. No, he wanted me to suffer for having killed his father and taking his lands and giving them back to his Forsworn slaves. So, he made a little deal with Igmund the pretender. He would reduce my sentence to a life of servitude in Cidhna Mine, while using me and my people as leverage. He knew that they worshiped me like a god; just as I deserve. If I told them to jump, they would jump. So he forced me to use the Forsworn as his agents, pointing their rage at his political and financial enemies and protecting his friends, until the Silver-Blood family was the richest family in the Reach. Even after the Thalmor drove Ulfric out of Markarth and Igmund went back on his word - just like a Nord to betray his supposed word of honor - Thonar used me to ensure that he never lost power."

"Is that your truth?" Torgrim asked.

There was another sigh. "My truth is that I, a king and a god, am forced to spend eternity in a hole in the ground while my people suffer as slaves under the boot of the white man's foot. My truth is that this is _my_ land! _My _ancestors bones lie beneath any Nord crypt built they may have built! My truth is that _my_ people were here first until the white conquerors from Atmora came, _your_ people." He pointed an accusatory finger at Torgrim from out of the darkness and into the light of the first candle. "You placed my people in chains, you forbade us from worshiping our gods, you branded us criminals in our own land! Fuck peace and tolerance! There can be no peace while white Nords infest _my_ land like a sickness! I am Madanach, King of the Forsworn, and I will cut a bloody hole into the Reach until every Nord lies dead and the Forsworn are free! _That_ is my truth!" He paused, gasping for air in the dark for a moment. Then once again the hand was raised, the finger pointing at Torgrim.

"The question is, whitey, what is _your_ truth?" he asked. "You think that because you killed my people, tried to expose my insurrection against the white cunt Thonar Silver-Blood that you have some higher moral authority over me? You think it's justice that _I_ should die instead of you? Go ask Braig about your white Nordic justice, he'll tell you the truth."

"I've spoken with him," Torgrim stated. "He hates Nords because they killed his daughter?"

"It wasn't that simple, you ignorant piece of shit!" Madanach shouted. "You see, he was one of my informants. He told me about the Nord families who were the most oppressive to my people, the ones who needed culling the most. Then, when Ulfric and his men began their own culling, his name came up. He was going to die for his crimes, when his little daughter begged Igmund the pretender to let her father live." He paused for a moment, and Torgrim heard shuffling of raggedly-clad feet upon a dirty floor.

"The Nord's inherent lust for blood was strong. How dare _my_ people take back the lands the white man had stolen from us! So...they made Braig watch as his three-year-old daughter...was beheaded, right before his eyes. Then threw him down here for good measure."

Torgrim paused, his hatred spilling out of him like a broken vessel. So far all he had seen Madanach as a faceless manipulator, one bringing about death for reasons unknown and trapping him and Asteria constantly, trying to end their lives. But then he heard that there were some on _his_ side who had lost children. He knew how he would feel if he lost Thorvald and Inghild: it would likely drive him just as mad.

"For twenty years I've had to hear stories like that," Madanach said at last. "Always a different family, a different atrocity. _That_ is the truth of your white Nordic justice. Perhaps now you understand...and can be of some use to me."

"Use?" Torgrim asked. "I thought you hated Nords."

"Oh, I do," Madanach replied. "But, while there can be no room for peace, there is room for tolerance. Your meddling on the surface has reminded me of my true duty. I shouldn't be in here, rotting like a piece of old meat in a rat's nest, causing petty annoyances for the Silver-Blood family: I should be in the hills of my native land, taking the fight to the Nords. It is time I made my escape, and if you are willing to prove yourself loyal to me, I will let you escape with me."

"How do I prove myself loyal?" Torgrim asked.

"Simple: kill a fellow Nord," Madanach stated. "As the Silver-Bloods run Cidhna Mine, they wouldn't dare let Nordic criminals be punished. No, only the Forsworn inhabit the mines! But there was one who stole from the Silver-Blood family, a crime that even they could not let go unpunished: Grisvar the Unlucky. He was caught stealing, but was allowed to live if he would snitch on my people to the Silver-Bloods, make sure I was doing Thonar's bidding and nothing else. He's outlived his usefulness: kill him, and I'll know that your loyalty to the white Nords is gone."

Torgrim turned his back and started walking out of the tunnel. He went in line behind the others in the line returning to the caverns, hoping to find Uraccen and ask him about the whereabouts of Grisvar the Unlucky.

* * *

Time had no meaning, but for how long Torgrim remained in the mine, searching for where Grisvar could be found, he had no recollection. Uraccen did not know where to find him, but neither did anyone else Torgrim asked. He labored on and on, despite growing exhaustion and lack of food. Many he saw fall in the tunnels from such exhaustion and dragged away by the taskmasters, whom Torgrim later learned were mercenaries hired by the Silver-Bloods.

At last, after a long time had passed of mining, carrying rubble back to the top level and asking around, Torgrim resigned in defeat. He would go back to Madanach and ask if he knew Grisvar's whereabouts. He was making his way there on his rubble dump when he heard two people arguing.

"It ain't my problem if you gave it away to save your skin," a thick Nordic voice said. "I want the skooma or you don't get no shiv!"

"It's not that easy, Grisvar!" another bemoaned.

Torgrim stepped out of line, still carrying his bag of rubble on his back as he approached the two.

"Are you Grisvar the Unlucky?" Torgrim asked.

"Who wants to know?" a short, bald Nord asked, turning towards the towering Torgrim.

"Madanach says hello," Torgrim said, then swung the bag in one sweep, knocking the little man to the ground. As if someone had thrown food into a den filled with hungry saber-cats, prisoners began rushing Grisvar, beating him with their fists or kicking at him with their feet. Torgrim was about to make his way out of the fray when suddenly a figure appeared from out of the doorway. The fight suddenly subsided as all those in the prison - thieves, murderers, rapists and Forsworn alike - knelt before their king.

"My brothers," Madanach said to them all. "We have been holed up for far too long. It is time to leave Cidhna Mine and continue our glorious fight against the Nords! Who's with me?"

Voices cried out in affirmation, while Torgrim made his way through the crowd, coming towards Madanach, who stood at the door of his room, with Borkul kneeling at his side.

"There you are!" Madanach greeted. "It seems I was right in trusting you. I had a few eyes of mine keep a watch on you and make sure that Grisvar came this way for my grand speech."

"Right," Torgrim nodded. "So, what's next? Do we rush the gates and make our way out of here?"

"On the contrary," Madanach replied. "We go this way." He then turned to those gathered around. "Go through these dark prison halls and find all those loyal to the cause. Bring them here, for only I know the path to our escape!" The prison burst into activity as men, and even some women, began pushing and shoving each other to get to Madanach, while some of those in the back began going deeper into the mines, looking for the others.

"This way!" Madanach shouted, leading the others around him into the tunnel leading to his room. Torgrim followed along the surge of people until they came to the room where Madanach and Borkul dragged aside the King's bed, revealing a tunnel dug into the side of the rock.

"Into the tunnel," Madanach said to his followers. "Beyond freedom awaits!"

Before any of them could move, he knelt down and crawled through first. A mob rushed towards the tunnel, eager to crawl through to freedom. Torgrim found it a tight squeeze but managed to push himself into a narrow room with a low ceiling that was illuminated only by a candle which Madanach had on a table at the far side of the room. As Torgrim tried to reach the front of the room closest to Madanach, the room slowly became crowded with more and more people stuffing into the small anteroom.

"This way, my brothers," Madanach said, gesturing towards a stone arch at the end of the anteroom. "Onward to freedom!"

Once again, leading the way, Madanach and the herd charged out of the tunnel into a much wider room made of stone. The press around Madanach was thick, with many people pushing and shoving their way to freedom in the giant hall. After pushing his way through the shadow-covered crowds, Torgrim at last made his way to the old man, who was now taking a back-seat and letting his followers lead the way.

"What is this?" Torgrim asked.

"Markarth was built out of an ancient Dwemer city," Madanach stated. "The upper levels of Cidhna Mine were carved out of the ends of the old Dwemer tunnels. Who knew that, of all people, the long-vanished Dwemer would be the ones to help our cause? Now stay with the others and keep moving. I'll have more from you once we see the sky."

Onward they went, until a loud cry was heard from up ahead. Running there, making his way through the darkness, Torgrim heard people crying and the sound of metal breaking.

"What happened?" he heard one cry out.

"Dwarven spheres," another replied, using the common name for the Dwemer given them by the giants of Skyrim.

"They got Uraccen!" another shouted.

Making his way towards the commotion, Torgrim tripped over a piece of a Dwemer automaton that had been torn apart by the prisoners after it had attacked Uraccen. A light appeared as Madanach walked over to Uraccen's side and Torgrim crawled over to where the old man had fallen.

"Old man," Torgrim said to the fallen Uraccen. "It's okay, I've got you."

"I'm done for," Uraccen groaned. At Torgrim's side, Madanach approached, bringing the candle closer. In the light, Torgrim saw a piece of the Dwemer machine's arm stuck in Uraccen's chest. The old man was groaning and sighing, with blood pouring from his chest.

"Find my daughter," Uraccen groaned. "Tell her...t-tell her..."

"Don't worry, Uraccen," Torgrim nodded. "You'll be with her soon."

The old man sighed, then laid his head back on the stone floor.

"Farewell, Uraccen," Torgrim heard Madanach mutter. "May the spirits guide you."

Turning around, Torgrim saw something that would stay with him until his dying day. After his conversation with Madanach, he believed that the King in Rags hated all Nords for the sins of a few. That he would betray him once he had left Cidhna Mine had not left Torgrim's mind. Nevertheless, as much as he wanted to believe that he did not see what he saw, he would never forget what he saw after Uraccen died and he turned to the King in Rags.

He saw a single tear glistening down Madanach's cheek, falling at last into his mustached beard.

For the moment, Torgrim rose to his feet and walked on with the others. He did not want to believe what he had seen in the light of the candle. There was still a long way to go through the Dwemer ruin until they reached the surface. On and on they passed through the tunnel, coming at last to a sealed Dwemer door. Here they all halted as Madanach pawed his way to the front of the group, then cried out, calling for silence.

"My brothers," he said. "We stand now on the brink of freedom. From here, we shall usher out into the streets and paint Markarth red with the blood of white Nords!" All of the prisoners cheered.

"I have the key to freedom," he said, holding aloft a square Dwemer key. "Outside, one of our own is waiting with our traditional clothing, those of the wilds, which we have worn while the white oppressor squatted in _our_ cities, _our_ towns!" More cheers once again.

Without further ado, Madanach placed the key in the center lock and the door slid open. Beyond there was darkness, only the light of the moons visible that night. In that dim light, brighter even than the ever-dark of Cidhna Mine, they could see men in armor standing before them with drawn swords.

"Hello again, old friend," a voice greeted. A shroud was removed from over a lantern and a balding, red-haired Nord appeared, wearing fine clothes and a haughty expression on his face.

"Thonar," Madanach said measuredly.

"Did you think that I hadn't realized your little series of insurrections?" Thonar asked. "You stopped contact with me, then you started attacking townsfolk instead of my enemies." He chuckled. "The peaceful and tolerant King in Rags, a terrorist."

"You're the terrorist here, whitey!" Madanach retorted. "Bullying farmers into selling their land to you, enslaving free people to do your dirty work! But my reign of terror has just begun!"

"Indeed?" Thonar asked. "And where will you go? I found your little friend Kaie." He stepped back, holding his lantern over what appeared to be a body lying on the stones of the street just near a pile of clothes. "The city guards made quick work of her."

"You filth!" Madanach gasped in horror. "You white filth! You and your family have poisoned this city with your tainted silver, stolen from _my_ ancestral land!"

"History remembers the strong, not the righteous," Thonar replied. "Even with an army of slaves, _I'm_ the one who has weapons and armor on my side."

"It was him!" Madanach suddenly shouted, pointing at Torgrim. "He tricked me! He said he could get me out of prison if I followed along with him!"

"Nice try, old man," Thonar returned. "But you're too cunning for that, and I'm no fool. He has been in my business for far too long."

"This is dishonorable!" Torgrim roared, speaking to Thonar Silver-Blood. "No true Nord would do what you're doing!"

"What do I care about being a true Nord or not?" asked Thonar. "Honor is so overrated these days. Now blood, _that_ makes a much better symbol. Kill them all."

"The weapons are behind them, get them!" Madanach shouted.

A brutal fray erupted from the prisoners and the soldiers. Many of the prisoners were strong, strength built over many years of back-breaking labor in the mines. The soldiers were strong, but they had not the same strength of body or fury that the prisoners had been given by them. Even with weapons and some of their number being cut down by the swords, the prisoners pushed on, sending most of the soldiers throwing their weapons down and running in fright.

"You're defeated, white scum," Madanach cried triumphantly. "Now I'll have my vengeance."

"Vengeance?" Thonar asked. "If I die, what happens to Markarth?"

"Igmund is a weakling!" Madanach retorted. "After we're done here, I'll march on up to Understone Keep and declare myself King of the Reach!"

"Really?" Thonar laughed.

"You're about to die, my friend," Madanach sneered. "What reason do you have to laugh?"

"You're forgetting my brother, Thongvor," Thonar replied. "If you kill me, he'll see what kind of a threat you are. He won't stop until the Stormcloaks are hunting you animals down, out of every crag, every crevice and every cave in the Reach! Besides..." He laughed again. "Did you really think _all_ of my soldiers were cowards?"

From afar, there was a shout and the sound of a bell being rung. Soon the streets were ringing with noise and the sound of feet making their way down the stone steps.

"I told them what to do," Thonar smiled. "Before we came here. If it looked like I would lose, call the rest of the city guard. I'll bleed the whole city dry to keep you from getting out of here. No one escapes Cidhna Mine, mad king, no one!"

"You're stalling for time," Madanach returned. With one kick he knocked Thonar down then turned to his comrades. "Run! Make for the city gates before all is lost!"

Grabbing the gear and weapons that had been dropped, they fled eastward, towards the city gates. Anyone they met in the streets, be it soldier or townsfolk, met a swift death. Torgrim did not fight, but he pressed on, eager to be out of Markarth. He had been there for who knew how long and it was more than he wanted for a lifetime. On and on they ran, stopping for nothing short of freedom, cutting down all in their path. With all the guards sent into the city to reinforce Thonar Silver-Blood, there was chaos and pandemonium: just enough confusion to allow them a quick escape through the gates.

"They're running for it!" a voice behind Torgrim shouted. "Close the gate! Close it! Trap them inside!"

The great Dwemer gates began to close, but there were still a good many prisoners behind them. Torgrim ran faster than he had ever ran before, pushing himself beyond his limits. Inge waited for him back home and he refused to let her go this easily. Just as the gates were closing, he leaped the final stretch and crawled through just as the great Dwemer gates of the city of Markarth sealed tightly shut behind them.

"Run, we're still on in the clear," he heard Madanach cry in front.

Torgrim continued on his way with the others, passing through the towers and the outer wall under a hail of arrows. Many more fell before they finally crossed the bridge over the river and were, for the moment, lost in the darkness of the night.

"Torgrim," he heard Madanach call his name.

"You know my name?" he asked.

"Thonar Silver-Blood was not the only one who had you followed," said the old king. "Now, I don't know what happened to your companion, but you did not turn on me and join your kind when Thonar tried to assassinate me. For that, I will grant you your life. You are free in my realm, but if you turn traitor on me..."

"Says the one who tried to pin this escape on me," Torgrim retorted.

"They needed to know who to blame, so I gave them someone," Madanach said. "But though they may blame you, my name will be feared. Besides, you're a Nord. You still have the rest of Skyrim all to yourself; it's not like I'm declaring war on all nine holds. Unlike you, whitey, the Reachmen are not conquerors: we never have been. Also, unless things have changed since I was last a free man, your holds are independent of each other. The other Jarls won't care about whether you let one madman free, as long as you don't do the same to them."

"So I'm still a wanted man, then?" Torgrim asked.

"Only while Igmund is Jarl," Madanach replied. "Now that I'm free, I will organize the lost and scattered children of the Reach. It could take one year, maybe many if the Silver-Bloods are as relentless in their search of me as I feel they will be. It might not even happen in my lifetime: perhaps fate will be kind enough to grant me a son and heir who will lead the Forsworn after I die. But make no mistake, my friend: the Reach _will_ belong to the Forsworn."

"So what happens now?" Torgrim asked again.

"I should really kill you," Madanach stated. "But, unlike Thonar, I _do_ believe in honor. You helped me escape, so I'm going to help you escape. Now go before I change my mind."

* * *

Listening to the story, Crixus felt that everything Madanach had said about the Nords was justified. Though he had not been privy to the events of the Markarth Incident, he had read Arius' book and, despite what Madanach had said, believed that the scholars of the Imperial university were unbiased and truthful: nothing entered their accounts except for proven fact, leaving no room for bias or agenda.

Nevertheless, the constant abuse and betrayal from Madanach made Crixus feel uncomfortable that he had talked down to Torgrim at their first meeting. It was one thing to call out a Nord if they were doing the awful things everyone in Tamriel knew them by: it was quite another to continue to distrust and insult said person after they realized their guilt and were trying to do their damnedest to make it right. Therein Crixus saw in Torgrim what he had failed to see in any other Nord so far: he saw a good that no prejudice could cover up.

"I ran as fast as I could," Torgrim concluded. "I ran until I saw Old Hroldan again. Asteria was still there, even though it had been _six_ days after we parted. Three days in the mines and three days back there. We parted ways there as I took Rhiada to my home back in Morthal. She's still there, for all I know."

"And he just let you leave, just like that?" Crixus asked. "No weapons, no armor, no drakes, nothing?"

"Nothing," Torgrim replied. "But, I got out with my life, and that's what matters. I lost nothing that cannot be replaced, save for Eltrys. But, gods willing, his child will live in peace and safety because of what I did in Markarth."

"Hmm," Crixus mused. "Well, you were right in telling me this. I'm afraid General Tullius had sent me to the Reach to find Madanach. Any idea where he might be hiding?"

"None at all," Torgrim returned.

"I see," Crixus nodded. "Well, we can spend the rest of the day gathering supplies for the journey. You will go on ahead of me, maybe sound out where I can find Madanach. I have some unfinished business to tend to before I meet you there."

* * *

**(AN: I would say "here comes the 'omg, racism in an _Elder Scrolls_ fic!' reviews" [because, after all, it's only acceptable for Nords to be depicted as racists, no other race], except, well, there haven't been any reviews. Oh well, i'm still going on ahead with this story. I did change the outcome of this quest, since i had stated that the Silver-Blood family got wiped out when Madanach took over Markarth, not before.)  
**

**(One thing i thought was good that i kind of added in at the end was that Madanach wept over the death of his people _and_ that he hates all Nords. One thing in _Downfall_ that some people didn't like was the idea that Hitler could actually be nice to people like his secretary or his dog. While a lot of people probably think of Madanach more as Che or Castro rather than Hitler, from a Nordic perspective, he is rather abrasive and offensive. So to give him that, that he actually shows pity over the death of his people, that he weeps, sends a powerful message: our bad guys are still people. And I feel like i pulled that off without making Madanach a whiny emo like Sam Raimi's Sandman or _Marvel_ Loki from the _Thor_ movies.)**


	32. The Music of Life

**(AN:-sigh- we're FINALLY out of the Reach! And, for those of you who were wondering when the other, "more interesting" characters are going to appear, well, if you see the title of this chapter, I think you can guess.)**

**(If you've been following since _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, then you know that i'm fond of vampires and was going to write my own _Dracula_ fan-fic just about the time that _Twilight_ was becoming popular and everyone was jumping on the vampire bandwagon. This is relevant to the story because we get to meet another vampire, one whom i just can't stand. Honestly, i think that said vampire is just like another vampire from _Interview with the Vampire_ [personally, the pre-_Twilight_ bad vampire fiction]. Just as creepy and potentially as bratty and self-centered.)**

* * *

**The Music of Life**

Three days had passed since the 16th of Rain's Hand, when Torgrim Stone-crusher shared the story of his adventures with the King in Rags and the Forsworn in the Reach with Servius Crixus. While they had both agreed to go west in search of Madanach, and even went so far as to buy supplies for the journey, Crixus had decided that he had unfinished business in Falkreath first. So while Torgrim went west to Old Hroldan to meet with Asteria and Rhiada first, he went south.

It took him three days to cross the plains of Whiterun, for there was rumors of bandit activity in the west of Whiterun Hold and those few travelers, merchants - including a different band of Khajiit than the ones he had met - told him that the roads through Whiterun were not very safe. Though Crixus was more than a match for anything he had yet met in Skyrim, he knew that being overwhelmed was more than enough to take him down. In fact, it had been overwhelming numbers that had almost been his downfall at the Battle of the Red Dog Pass in the winter of 4E 180.

On he went, until the green sea that was Whiterun gave way to green forests. A great forest met his eyes as he traveled on further southward, with tall pines and ironwood trees filling up the rocky landscape. There was a road through the woods, and this he traveled, passing over a bridge with a mill to his left on the edge of a vast lake. So close was he to the south that this land almost reminded him of northern Cyrodiil as he had known it during the Great War. It had been cold there, but it was bearable and the trees and green grass were welcome sights after spring snows in the Pale, Winterhold and northern Eastmarch. The weather also was much more temperate than the rest of Skyrim thus far, and here he felt at least somewhat closer to home.

It would, of course, never be Anvil.

At the first fork in the road, he went south, hoping that he would find what he was searching not very far from the road. At least an hour and a half of riding went on until the road began to bend southward. Here Crixus noticed, off to his right, a shelf on which the road passed. Dismounting, he walked down a small path to the bottom of the shelf. Here he saw a small, still mere, as flat and featureless as a mirror, yet it was black and no reflection shone upon its surface. It came right up to the edge of the shelf, which was a cliff face going all the way up to the side of the road. Into that cliff-face Crixus saw a door, built under the shadow of the cliff-face so that even in noon-day sun it would be shaded.

After tying up his horse to a tree, Crixus walked over to the door built in the side of the cliff. It was made all of stone, with the likeness of a skull with empty eyes carved over the top of the door: upon the skull's forehead there was an old weathered symbol etched into the rock. It had long since lost its color, but Crixus could see that a hand had been placed into the stone skull's head. There was something at the bottom that looked like a body, but time and the elements had eroded it away, leaving only a shape roughly like a head and one eye glaring out of the stone at him. He placed his hand upon the stone when suddenly he heard a voice whisper to him from out of the heart of the stone wall.

"_What is the music of life_?"

"S-Silence?" Crixus asked. He had remembered what the assassin had told him, but hoped that he wasn't forgetting something before he suddenly remembered. "My brother! Silence, my brother!"

There was a moment of silence were the empty face glared at him, then at last there was a deep rumbling of stone and he heard the voice speak to him yet again.

"_Welcome home_."

The door in the hill-side opened up and Crixus walked into the darkness just beyond. From the gaping skull on the door to the black pool, Crixus had the sensation that he was leaving the world of mortals, the world in which his senses were god and master. Surely, he wondered, the Hero of Kvatch - whatever he, she or it was - must have felt this way when he, she or it crossed into the realm of Oblivion.

The tunnel led down a flight of stairs, until the light from the doorway was lost completely. It was very dark, so much that the only light up ahead, a torch flickering just beyond, seemed to be painful to look upon. But as he did, he saw that it was much brighter down here in the darkness that he had initially anticipated. A torch hung to the wall and candles were sitting in niches within the wall as well, giving off much light into the hallway; though not enough to fully dispel every shadow. Crixus approached the torch and removed it from the wall as he looked about the room into which he had stepped. It was very wide but had a low ceiling: a tall man like Torgrim could not stand up straight in this place. He looked and looked around, until, turning right, the light of his torch fell upon a figure clad all in black, wearing black leather damasked with red and a red veil and black cowl over the face and head.

"Welcome, brother," a familiar voice said.

The cowl and the veil were removed and Crixus saw the face of the one he had met in the shack in the middle of the marshes. To his dismay, she was a Nord: blond hair tied up beneath her cowl, pale skin and eyes that, even in the torch light, shone blue with a fire stronger than that which burned on the brand in Crixus' hand. There was also something else in those eyes, a lust which made even Crixus, war-hardened veteran though he was, quiver with revulsion.

"You certainly took your time getting here," she said.

"I was busy," Crixus replied. "I have other obligations."

"Like the Thieves Guild?" she asked. "Don't worry. Delvin Mallory is a friend of mine. He'll understand if I have to borrow you for an assignment. Anything else is second-place now that you have begun your new life with your new family."

"New family?" Crixus asked.

"You came here because you were called," she returned cryptically. "You have what it takes to be one of us. Welcome to the Dark Brotherhood, brother. My name is Astrid, and I am your leader."

"Leader?" Crixus asked. "Are you the Listener?"

Astrid's eyes narrowed when Crixus spoke. "There are other stories, spoken in hushed tones in the darkest places of Tamriel, about the fate of the Dark Brotherhood. Many died during the Great War, and the chaos that came afterwards. In High Rock, the sanctuary in Wayrest was sacked by corsairs. Now we are all that remain."

"That can't be true," Crixus returned. "Something always survives these 'great purges'. Nothing is ever truly lost."

"Not all who wander are lost, brother," Astrid said. "But what you say is true. _We_ are that which survived the 'great purges'. I saved us not by adhering to the old ways, that's exactly what got us killed off in the first place. So get one thing clear: you answer to me and me only. Is that understood?"

Crixus nodded silently, though he was wondering if there were more than just these people in all of Tamriel who were the truth Dark Brotherhood. Tamriel was a large place, surely there must be other people somewhere else who were still answering the Black Sacrament and carrying out kills in the dead of the night.

"Since you'll be staying here for a while," Astrid continued. "I would advise you to become acquainted with your brothers and sisters in the shadow. We are a little family here, one that is about to welcome its newest member into our fold."

"A family of murderers," Crixus muttered under his breath, but the stone walls made his whisper louder than he had intended.

"We fulfill a need in this world," Astrid retorted. "What we do is no more murder than what the Companions or the Fighters Guild do, or what a soldier in the Imperial Legion does! We carry out our orders, somebody dies. There's no difference, and anyone who says otherwise is a naive fool."

"I'm not judging you," Crixus stated. "Of...of course I'll meet your family."

"Good," Astrid returned. "Just go down the stairs here and you'll find them."

"So what do we do?" Crixus asked. "Share stories? Cook meals for each other? Braid each other's hair and beards?"

"Funny, but that's not what we do," Astrid shook her head. "Like I said before, we kill. Someone performs the Black Sacrament, we send an agent out to have their contract picked up. This is our home, our sanctuary. Here we can rest in between killings to share the stories of the hunt and gather more contracts. Nazir is the one you should speak to for your contracts for now: considering your wit, you might actually like him. Go on, then: they're anxious to meet you."

Taking his torch with him, Crixus made his way down the stairs. Out of some strange and indescribable realization that he was being watched, Crixus looked over his shoulder. Astrid's eyes were glinting like madness in the fire as she gazed after him. He shivered imperceptibly, but then turned away and continued on into the darkness. The next room seemed to be something of a meeting room with several chairs gathered around. Candles surrounded the chairs, sat on desks and tables and in niches to give off enough light to illuminate this room. There were four people and a little child all sitting around in a circle, apparently in silence. As Crixus approached, he noticed that the people here were even more diverse than those he met in the Thieves Guild. There was an Argonian, whose yellow eyes seemed never to blink as he gazed at the newcomer. Two older men, one a bald, frail-looking man and the other a ragged Nord with long hair and a beard, looked at the newcomer. The ragged Nord made a 'harumph' while the bald man rose up and went on his way.

The last two were a young Dunmer woman and the child.

"You must be the new-blood that Astrid has for us," the Dunmer greeted. She wore a hood over her face, but Crixus could see her red eyes from beneath the hood at the tip of her blue-grey chin: even so, her voice did not bear the drawling accent of the Dunmer native to Morrowind.

"I must be," Crixus diplomatically returned. "And you are?"

"Gabriella," she replied. "Yes, I know, it's a dreadfully dull name. I was raised in Wayrest in High Rock and my adopted family gave me the name."

"You're not from Morrowind?" Crixus asked.

"By Sithis, no!" Gabriella replied. "The country's a tomb, buried in ash and smoke. I've no desire to go to Morrowind, especially since I have such a wonderful family here in Skyrim with the Dark Brotherhood."

"Right," Crixus nodded, then turned to the little girl.

"I suppose you're shocked, really," the little girl said. "Seeing a ten-year-old girl in a den of assassins. Well, the truth is, I'm no more a child than you are." She chuckled. "Though, all of you are children to me."

"Let me guess," Crixus mused. "Vampire, right?"

"How did you know?" the little girl asked.

"I was traveling with the Khajiit caravans from Windhelm to Solitude," Crixus began. "As we passed by the south of Eldersblood Peak, they made mention about vampire problems in the Hjaalmarch region. I must confess, I've never seen a vampire before."

"We don't go walking out in broad daylight, just so you know," the little girl replied. "Though I've heard whispers that vampire lords are capable of walking during the day as long as their skin is protected. Me, the one who made me made sure that I was never that strong. But..." She smiled in a way that sent the hairs on Crixus' arm standing on end. "...I still have other means of killing."

"What about him?" Crixus asked, gesturing to the Argonian.

"Vee-Zara is the last of the Shadowscales of Black Marsh," Gabriella answered. "They're trained to kill from when they're hatched. Because of that, and his status as the last of his kind, he doesn't really talk to anybody."

"And you're okay with him?" Crixus asked again.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Gabriella asked.

"Well, you know, the Argonians overran Morrowind," Crixus stated. "Enslaved all of your people. It would seem to be a reason for friction between you two."

"Let's get one thing straight, Imperial," Gabriella replied. "My only tie to Morrowind is in my skin. I grew up in the west, not in the east. And I don't give a damn what the Argonians do as long as they don't attack us. Do I make myself clear?"

"Right," Crixus nodded. "What about the rest of them?"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to them," the little girl stated. "Arnbjorn doesn't like anybody and neither does Festus Krex. You'll find Gabriella and myself to be much more talkative."

"And what's your name, little..." Crixus began.

"I'm not little," the girl replied. "I'm three hundred years old. I was born a hundred and ten years before the Nerevarine was born, I witnessed the Oblivion Crisis first hand, feasted on the bodies of the dying during the Great War and have learned more in all of my years than anyone could possibly ever know. And the name is Babette."

"Impressive," Crixus said aloud. "So what do you do around here...Babette?"

"I kill people," she replied with a wide, unsettling precocious smile. "But I also brew potions and poisons for the others. The Dark Brotherhood doesn't always kill with a knife across the throat. Sometimes we go for something more subtle, like poison. That's where I come in. I've learned from some of the best alchemists throughout the years and have done quite a bit of work on my own."

"Really?" Crixus mused. "So, three hundred years. Have you always been a part of the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Oh yes," she nodded, an unsettling smile on her face. "I took a Dark Brotherhood kill while feeding and was inducted. I even got to meet Lucien Lachance, who was Listener of the Dark Brotherhood during the Oblivion Crisis. A grim fate he met, to be sure. I even had the chance to kill the Hero of Kvatch."

Crixus snickered. "Really? They'd trust a child with killing so great a legend?"

"Oh, she didn't die," Babette shook her head.

"She?" Crixus asked. "From what I've heard, the Hero of Kvatch's name and identity were lost through the centuries. Now everyone puts their own face, name and gender on the hero for whatever reasons. The most popular legend was that he was an Argonian who worked for the Mages Guild, the Fighters Guild, the Arena and the Thieves Guild as well as the Dark Brotherhood _and_ the Knights of the Nine."

"Oh, I saw her," Babette replied. "And neither was she an Argonian, she didn't work for us. Actually, her contract came from a nobleman who was jealous of her success. He said it didn't seem right that an ignorant farm-girl should be allowed to become the Champion of Cyrodiil, so he asked that we take her out." Babbette shook her head.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Babette said at last. "Suffice to say that I did my time. I was outed from the Dark Brotherhood, since they didn't know how to kill me. I spent the next years traveling, always in darkness, learning what I could, until the Dark Brotherhood and I crossed paths again. This time I stayed with them for good, and here I am."

"That's quite a mouth-full," Crixus stated. "Now which one is Nazir? I don't think I saw him."

"He usually keeps to himself," Gabriella added. "Just look for the Redguard, he won't be hard to find."

"Ooh, wait!" Babette spoke up, then swiftly disappeared only to reappear moments later, holding a piece of paper in her hands. Crixus took the paper and examined it: it appeared like a shopping list for an alchemist's shop. "I'm a bit short of supplies. I would have gone out to harvest them myself, but after our little break-in, Astrid's been making our comings and goings even more secretive."

"Wait a minute, break-in?" Crixus asked.

Babette giggled. "Some idiot named Gaston Bellefort came snooping around the Sanctuary one night, so I sicked my pet spider Lis on him."

"You have a pet spider?" Crixus asked.

"A big frost-bite spider," she returned. "I think they're so cute, with their eight little black eyes and eight legs like little hairy fingers." She mimed a spider crawling across her left hand with her right hand and broke into peels of laughter.

Crixus rolled his eyes, then continued on his way through the darkness, his flickering torch held aloft in one hand while the shopping list he received from Babbette he stuffed into one of his pockets. He continued walking around until he found a tunnel that led into a dark room with no candles or torches lit. Here his torch cast light upon a stone table with many chairs gathered around it. This, he guessed, must be where they partook of their meals together, though there was nobody else present in the room: or so he thought. Just then, a hand reached out of the darkness and touched him on the shoulder. In one swift move, Crixus turned around, drawing a knife with his hand and aiming it at the newcomer: a Redguard in traditional clothing, even down to a crimson _tagelmust_ instead of a cowl and mask.

"Quick reflexes," the Redguard said in a deep, menacing voice. "That can be useful in our line of work."

"So who are you?" Crixus asked.

"Nazir," the Redguard replied coldly. "And you must be the newest addition to our little dysfunctional family. I've heard quite a bit about you from Astrid. I see that you have _some_ skill, but just don't get cocky. If a week's passed and someone's not stuck a knife through your gut, maybe we can use you. Are you interested in a little work?"

"Anything in the Reach?" Crixus asked.

"Not yet," Nazir replied. "But we do have a few contracts we haven't been able to pick up in the eastern holds: the Pale, the Rift and Eastmarch. We're a pretty laid back family, so you can complete these tasks at your leisure. Once you've completed them, return here for more work. I'm sure we'll have plenty for you to do, what with the Civil War and everything."

"So what about these three contracts?" Crixus asked.

"Not exactly glamorous or well-paying," Nazir stated. "But somebody's got to do them. Once you've completed these, Astrid might have things a bit more...challenging for you to accomplish. I've got the pertinent information on them on this note..." He plucked from his bosom a sheet of parchment paper which he gave to Crixus. "The one in the Rift is Narfi, a beggar living in a burned out shack outside of Ivarstead. The one in the Pale is Beitlid, a mine boss whose gotten herself more enemies than friends. The last one, just north of the Yorgrim River, is an ex-miller named Ennodius Papius. Think you can handle this?"

"Of course," Crixus smiled.

"Good," Nazir replied. "In that case, welcome to the Dark Brotherhood."

* * *

**(AN: I know that Babette did not get to be too bratty here, but i was just introducing her and, like Aela, she's a fan-favorite [i guess creepy vampire kid is in?]. Also, the whole thing about her that is unsettling is that she looks so young and yet is so jovial about taking lives. Like with Serana in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, vampires have little regard for humans: they're essentially cattle to them. But her little quip about the Hero of Kvatch, i made intentionally vague_, _especially for newcomers to this story.)  
**

**(Kind of shorter from the last chapter, since i _really_ got carried away with that seven-hundred chapter bit about Madanach [my brother likes him, so i thought that most people would identify the Forsworn as the Native Americans, since it's easy to pin every sin Caucasians have ever done on the Nords :( ], so i wanted something more manageable.)**


	33. The King in Rags

**(AN: Lol, so goofy sex scenes are okay, using words like "racist" and "bigot" in a Medieval/Viking Age setting are okay, but a racial slur that just might sound a little too modern is going too far? Oh well, it was intentional to make something that sounded familiar. The whole reason for using that subject matter in this fic - aside from the fact that, and i don't think i've made myself any clearer, "racism has been in _Elder Scrolls_ since _Morrowind!_" hell, even Michael Kirkbride wrote that into _Morrowind_ and his precious little ego trip _C0DA_ where all the races except the Dunmer [and the Khajiit on the side] are killed off at the end of Nirn - is to remove the racist stigma from self-defense. We live in a world where the color of one's skin determines whether one is "defending what is rightfully theirs" or "being an intolerant racist". The point i've tried to hammer in my stories is that everyone uses the race card to demonize the opponent, it is not exclusive to northern European Caucasians [or, in this case, it is not exclusive to Nords])**

**(You probably didn't notice that when i featured the Dark Brotherhood - a coven of murderers i have previously likened to the Manson family - Gabriella, a Dunmer, is neither nationalistic nor does she hate Vee-Zara, an Argonian. And no, Gabriella is not the "token nice Dunmer", there will be more in this story.)**

* * *

**The King in Rags  
**

Crixus was glad that the kills were not time sensitive. He had to visit Torgrim at Old Hroldan, after which there would most likely be a lengthy trek through the Reach. He went swiftly now, hoping that he could make up for a slow gallop through Whiterun by high-tailing it on horseback to Old Hroldan. The woods of Falkreath passed by and were replaced by the green fields of Whiterun, sloping gradually higher and higher the further west he galloped. At last the flat-land began to grow rocky: according to the notes on the map, the rocky region of western Whiterun indicated where the land gave way to the crags and ravines of the Reach.

Stopping first at Rorikstead, the last hamlet before entering the rugged wastes of the Reach, Crixus got directions to Old Hroldan from there. It wasn't very far, maybe about an hour's ride down a path just west of town. He would have to dismount to go down the hill, then turn south and Sjolund's sinkhole, where he would eventually find his way to the old inn in the gullies. Crixus tipped the bar-tender who gave him this information, then went on his way.

It truly was strange how the land itself changed around him. The flat plains were cut and torn apart by large canyons and gullies, many of them longer than could be scaled with a rope from the top. The superstitious might have believed that, once upon a time, giants had fought in this land, and where the swings of their axes, spears, swords and clubs had gone wide and struck the ground, there the crevices were formed and there they stood until this very day. To Crixus, a cynical, realistic man, he saw only rocks and mountains and felt only the cold wind upon his face. But as he looked about at the high canyon walls and the narrow valleys that snaked off from the gorge into which he was walking, leading his horse behind him, he noticed every so often a hood or a head of wind-blown hair or the edge of a helmet appear for a moment, only to disappear again.

He was being watched.

At the bottom of the hill, Crixus did not mount up his horse, but took up his bow, fitted an arrow into the string and drew it back, looking this way and that. His pursuers must have realized this, for they had suddenly disappeared. Now there was not even a sign of them. Twice now Crixus scanned the surrounding cliffs and the valleys, and once again he saw nothing. An eagle passed overhead and screeched, the wind whistled gently through the rock-laden valley. But there was no sight of anyone else in the valley, not even a sound.

The last leg of his journey was spent riding slowly and warily on southward, with one hand on the reins of his horse and the other hand on his bow. Slowly but surely he made his way south, until at last he saw the inn which Torgrim had described: Old Hroldan. He hitched his horse at the small stable, which he found to be almost full up as he approached. With horse secured, he made his way up the stairs and into the inn. There were two things which Crixus realized when he stepped into the inn, wiped his boots on the fur mat and walked into the common room. The first thing was that the common room was full of many faces, many of them adventurers or sell-swords, clad in fur, steel, iron or leather armor, laughing, buried in their cups or deep in their tales.

The second thing he realized was that there was singing. At one table a young woman with dark hair stood upon the table, a lute in her hand as she plucked away and sang. Her words captivated Crixus immediately and he was transported back through the long annals of years to his childhood in Anvil, to a time before the Red Dog, before the Great War, before he lost his father, his brother and his faith.

_Waves touch the coast_  
_Harbored in twilight's blue_  
_From dawn came the sunlight_  
_And with dusk it fades from our view_

_Calm embraces the sky_  
_While storms rage in our hearts_  
_For honor, glory and love_  
_From Anvil we do depart_

_The fire lights the path_  
_And the salt, it sprays in our eyes_  
_But warriors born of stone_  
_They are never afraid to die_

_Bells on the docks_  
_They cry out for the mortal day_  
_And winds sing the dirge_  
_For the words we never could say_

_And sails fly at half-mast_  
_In the color of evening's hue_  
_And tears break the silence_  
_For the children we almost knew_

_When dawn kissed the ocean_  
_From the golden light came our birth_  
_And when dusk falls on the harbor_  
_To the golden shores we will return_

Crixus removed the riding gloves from his hands to wipe away the tears that were forming under his eyes: no one could be allowed to see his better half, not even complete strangers. Once he was certain he was presentable, he made his way to the table where the young woman was playing. She stepped off the table and took a seat next to a large Nord with long hair and a beard, both of them as golden as wheat and straw. For a moment Crixus examined the woman from afar: dark hair and blue eyes made her the picture of Colovian beauty.

It was then, looking so deeply at the young woman, that Crixus recognized the man sitting next to her.

"Torgrim!" he greeted.

"There you are!" Torgrim replied. "It's been almost a week since we last parted. Was your trip fruitful?"

"Yes," Crixus nodded. "Though it will mean going back into enemy territory." He turned to the young woman. "You have a great talent for music, I must say."

"It's a skill I have honed with many years of practice," she returned. "Just like your bow, stranger."

"Indeed," Crixus grinned. "I take it this is your traveling companion Asteria?" He turned to her. "Septimus Crixus. Torgrim has told me much about you, but he never mentioned how beautiful you are, from your eyes, blue like the Sirid River, to your voice, like benighted eyes first beholding the beauty of dawn."

Asteria grinned. "A fellow Imperial, I see."

"Wait, how did you know he was from Cyrodiil?" Torgrim asked.

"Nords are very straight-forward when they talk," Asteria began, looking first at Torgrim before turning to Crixus. "Whereas fellow Colovians are more flattering. They make for wonderful politicians and orators."

Crixus grinned. "But poor soldiers, I take it. No, I don't mean anything by it. That's how the old saying goes. Bretons are quick-witted, enterprising and spell-crafty, but their stature makes them poor warriors. Redguards are skilled warriors and wise men, but they fear magic and are poor peace-keepers. Nords are a mountain of strength, but they lack wisdom and subtly. Imperials are wonderful politicians and orators but poor soldiers."

"And what of the non-human races?" Asteria chuckled.

"Bosmer are skilled archers and friends with the woodland creatures, but are the weakest in a forward fight. Argonians are crafty and powerful and keep secrets from everyone, including friends. Khajiit are keen-eyed and skilled merchants, but their hands are the lightest. Dunmer are ambitious, burning with a desire for greatness, but they hate outsiders. Orcs are the most powerful race of all Tamriel, but they are unloved by all races. Altmer are masters of the arcane arts and the founders of culture, yet they are the most arrogant of all races."

Asteria grinned again. "You just described what everyone usually thinks of all the races of Tamriel."

"My business isn't pleasing everyone, it's doing what needs to be done," Crixus stated. "So, what part of Cyrodiil are you from?"

"Bravil," Asteria replied.

"Really?" Crixus mused. "I would say, after hearing that song of yours, that you would be from Anvil."

Immediately, Crixus noted that Asteria's eyes shifted to him in a look of keen discernment. "What makes you think I would be from Anvil?"

"Well, I'm from Anvil myself," Crixus stated. "I've seen sunset over the Gold Coast, and I don't think anyone who's never been there could possibly describe it as accurately as you did."

"Well, the song isn't mine," Asteria evaded. "It's an old song that was used by a master-thief called the Raven of Anvil during a grand heist of the Countess of Anvil."

"A song about a thief," Crixus smiled. "I'm impressed. Most songs are about long dead heroes or old wars, never anything as clever as thieving."

Asteria raised one eye-brow. "You're intrigued? Most people seem rather upset at the concept of thievery."

"Not me," Crixus added. "I find it all fascinating."

"Then you've never been robbed, have you?" Torgrim asked.

"Right," Crixus replied, not buying Torgrim's response for a minute. "So, what happens now?"

"While you were in the woods to the south," Torgrim began. "I was asking around. There's rumors going around about Forsworn in the northern Reach. Somewhere north of Bthardamz and east of Deep Folk Crossing. Of course, there's also news of a large Forsworn camp somewhere near Karthspire."

"If we're going to be going anywhere," Asteria spoke up, looking over at one of the tables. "I say we should get moving immediately."

"What's wrong?" Crixus asked, noting the concern in her voice and the worry in her eyes.

"The inn became rather crowded this morning," Asteria stated. "And I'm not exactly sure about these newcomers. They keep eying us and fingering their weapons."

Crixus looked about the inn. More than a few of the so-called adventurers and sell-swords were indeed looking at them with disdain. He also noted that all of them were armed, despite the Imperial decree that no weapons be carried in the city limits by anyone other than the town guard or the Imperial Legion. Though obviously this was not within the limits of a city, he noted that none of them had their weapons sheathed or lying out of reach upon the table or against the wall: they were all in hand, ready to be used at a moment's notice.

"You're right," Crixus nodded. "It's time we took our leave. Torgrim, do you have everything?"

"I've always been ready," Torgrim replied, then leaned in. "After we parted, I never unpacked my gear. It's right underneath our table, packed and ready to leave here as soon as you're ready. I haven't ordered any food or drink yet and my room's already been paid."

"Perfect," Crixus grinned. "And you?"

"I don't have anything" Asteria replied. "Except the clothes on my back and my lute. I'll go if we need to, though..."

"Don't worry," Crixus dismissed with a casual wave of his hand. "Torgrim's told me all about your little predicament. I'll have a friend in Riften get your name on that list."

"Are you sure he's good?" Asteria asked.

Crixus chuckled. "Good? No. He's the best."

She grinned. "Then I'm all set."

Without any more ado, the three rose from their table and made their way back across the common room and out the door. Crixus closed the door behind them then walked after Torgrim and Asteria as they made their way to the stables. But as Crixus made his way there, he could see the path he had come down on his way here, with several figures making their way down the same road. Behind them he heard a shout and the inn door swing open.

"There he is!" one shouted. "Get 'im!"

The two Nords next to the Redguard whose shout had sent them into action never had a chance to attack. Crixus had drawn out an arrow, bent his bow and sent an arrow into the first Nord. The other one was now too close for arrows and Crixus, knowing this, punched him in the face with his bow, then drew out his gladius with his other hand and sent the Nord's entrails spilling out of the slash in his stomach and falling steaming only to the ground. The Redguard, meanwhile, started charging from the inn door towards them, but Crixus felled him with an arrow, then turned to Torgrim and Asteria.

"We've got to go!" he shouted. "They have reinforcements!"

"Who's they?" Asteria asked.

"Mercenaries," Torgrim replied. "The Silver-Bloods employed them in protecting Cidhna Mine. I suppose Thonar sent them after Madanach and myself after our little prison-break."

"Let's get moving," Crixus shouted as he came to a skidding halt just next to Torgrim as he mounted his massive riding horse.

"I don't have a horse!" Asteria exclaimed.

"We don't need one," Torgrim stated. He leaned down and, with one hand, lifted Asteria up off her feet and placed her upon his saddle, lying as if on a bed.

Crixus heard more shouts from the inn and saw Torgrim draw out his great-sword, hefting it with one hand as he galloped southward. Crixus, meanwhile, ran to his horse and quickly untied the knot before leaping onto his own saddle and galloping after Torgrim. Just in time he saw the Nord swing his mighty blade with one hand, hacking one of the mercenaries in half from shoulder to shoulder. With one hand on the bow and another hand on the reins, Crixus spurred his horse after Torgrim, passing by the door of the inn before anyone could strike them. It did not take Crixus long for his leaner and faster horse to catch up with Torgrim.

"Which way are we going?" Crixus asked.

"We have to cross the bridge," Torgrim answered as he placed his sword back on his back and pointed straight ahead southward. "Then we go west. I say we go seek out the northern rumors."

"Anything to get us away from these f..."

But Crixus' words were halted as they came to the road, which turned left due southeast for a few dozen yards before turning sharply back west and towards a bridge where, even from here, Crixus could hear the roar of a waterfall. Up ahead the road a piece, he could see more mercenaries guarding the eastern road just at the bend.

"These mercenaries just won't quit!" he exclaimed.

"Come on!" Torgrim roared. "If we hurry, we may reach the bridge before they get to us!"

Both of them spurred their horses into action for the charge to the bridge. At his side, Crixus saw Asteria scramble up into a sitting position. Farther behind, he could see the mercenaries rushing _en masse_ down the road they had come. Ahead he could see the mercenaries in the east moving towards them. Nearing the turn, Crixus turned his horse off the road and onto a small grassy shelf, then leaped off the shelf and back onto the road, avoiding the bend altogether. Torgrim followed suit, though his horse seemed to give slightly as it came down off the shelf, the weight of both riders taxing the poor beast.

"We've got trouble!" Torgrim announced.

Turning to his right, Crixus saw another force of mercenaries with arms drawn and voices shouting at them in challenge on the other side of the bridge. Here they paused for a moment: there were mercenary archers coming down out of the valleys to the north, who would take up shooting positions on the bluffs just south-west of Old Hroldan and be able to rain arrows down upon them for as far as Crixus could see. Down the road they had come from the inn, the mercenaries that had followed them into the inn were now charging down the way they had so easily escaped, while to the east the mercenaries at the eastern blockade were drawing bows and preparing to charge, while the bridge was held against them to the west. There was no way to go, either backwards or forward.

"Damn! They're good!" Crixus exclaimed. "Every route blocked. Even if we make it across the bridge, we'll be sitting targets for archers upon the ridge."

"Today is a good day to die," Torgrim laughed defiantly.

"No!" Crixus shouted. "No one's dying on me, not today."

"There's only one way we can go, Crixus," Torgrim stated, pointing towards the bridge. "And I'm going that way." He drew out his great-sword and, spurring his horse, cried with a loud voice: "Sovngarde awaits!"

Torgrim's horse charged towards the barricade on the other side of the bridge at full speed, sword a-swinging to gather up momentum. With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Crixus followed after him. The distance was closed before the archers on the other side had time to draw their bows. Torgrim swung his blade on either side, swatting down mercenaries like flies, while behind him, Crixus was drawing his bow, shooting at those whom Torgrim had left out. He only got off two shots before the horse leaped over a dead body and came to a landing next to Torgrim's horse.

"This is futile!" Crixus shouted over the roar of the nearby waterfall.

"I'm open to any suggestions you might have," laughed Torgrim grimly.

"The Karth River," Crixus said.

"I can't swim," Torgrim stated.

"Then stay on the horse," Crixus added.

"What about my lute?" Asteria shouted.

"I'll buy you a new one," Crixus replied. "Now urge your horse into the river, Torgrim!"

"This is madness!" Torgrim shouted after Crixus as the latter pulled his horse back for the great leap into the river.

"It would be crazier to stay on the roads," Crixus replied as he kicked his horse into a charge, placed up his bow and arrow and held on for dear life as the ledge grew closer and closer with each step. Behind him, just faintly over the sounds of the waterfall, he heard Torgrim swear loudly and spur his own horse after him.

For a moment, just as the horse leaped off of the stone ledge, there was a strange sensation come over Crixus. The air moving down out of the east, the ground vanishing from beneath his feet and the free fall made him feel for a moment as if he was flying. Then there was the ultimate fall and they both hit the water hard. Immediately he was soaked through, from his boots to his jacket. The rushing river current swept him up and he could scarcely hear the sound of another neigh and another large splash behind him as he flew down another waterfall. Whatever happened next, Crixus could not recall, for he went down into the water and blacked out.

* * *

When Crixus finally awoke, he found himself lying on a pebbly shore. Nearby, he saw the bodies of Torgrim and Asteria lying on the shore as well, with Torgrim's large chestnut mare lying on her side as well. He rose sorely making sure that no bones were broken. If they were, he did not immediately notice them. Immediately he walked over to Torgrim and patted his face. The Nord's blue eyes slowly blinked open, then snapped fully open when they saw Crixus leaning over him.

Crixus never saw the large fist flying towards his face until it was too late.

"Fool!" Torgrim roared as Crixus recoiled, hand held over his nose. "You witless goat! Do have you sense at all?"

As Crixus' head stopped swimming from Torgrim's blow, he fought to keep any of the colorful pejoratives he frequently used against Nords against Torgrim. His story with Madanach, as unlikely and incredible as it sounded, left an impression on him. Nevertheless, he was still angry from being hit without warning.

"Don't lecture me, Torgrim!" he retorted. "If it wasn't for me, we'd all be dead."

"We had a chance up there!" Torgrim roared, pointing back upstream the Karth River, upon whose shores they had been washed down. "Now what will happen? We have no food, no bed-rolls, no dry kindling and only one horse! Huh? You tell me!"

"Actually," Crixus said grimly, looking at the horse. "I don't even think we have that."

Torgrim turned his eyes to his beloved mare and saw, with horror, that both of its back legs were broken. The rage that built up in Torgrim's eyes Crixus could feel from where he stood, and sloshed onto his feet, backing away from Torgrim as he rose to his feet angrily.

"You damned fool!" roared Torgrim. "You may have killed us all!"

"Listen to me," Crixus retorted. "I took a judgment call, just the same as I would in the heat of battle. We're both alive and we're away from that ambush. Be thankful for that."

"Thankful?" Torgrim roared. "By the gods! Marcurio told me you were arrogant, but I had no idea!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Asteria suddenly cried out.

Crixus strode off and began examining his gear. The letters he had received during his time in Mournhold were still preserved, and Yngvar's note was still waiting for him back at Proudspire Manor where he had deposited it. Only one thing was missing: his bow. The quiver was still intact, though several arrows were missing and some were broken altogether. From behind he heard a pitiful groan from Torgrim's mare as he drove his sword through its throat, killing it. Crixus knew that, wherever his horse could be, it too was likely dead.

He had performed as foolishly as when he had led Marcurio into the Pale during the midst of a late-winter blizzard.

Hearing soft sobbing, Crixus walked away from Torgrim and Asteria and began looking around. Their little cove seemed to be near a village which sat on the banks of the river before a large island of rock in the middle. Crixus saw a small host coming towards them from that village. He alerted the others, who rose up to meet them. Crixus realized that Torgrim did not draw his sword but sheathed it back upon his back.

"Shouldn't we try to run?" Asteria sniffled. "Or fight?"

"It wouldn't matter," Crixus returned. "We wouldn't get very far, not like this."

In minutes they were surrounded by wild men wearing fur clothing adorned with bones, feathers and black face paint upon their Bretony faces. Their weapons were just as crude as their clothing: swords were no different than maces, a long piece of leather-bound wood with saber-cat teeth sticking out for a serrated blade.

Crixus held up his hands, the universal sign of surrender.

The group of wild men took them to their village on the banks of the river, towards one of the largest tents. Criuxs noted that there were many tents here, all of them made of fur and hides. In those tents he saw many old men, but also women and children wearing the same fur and bones with face-paint upon their young faces. He wondered why they were here: what madman would bring children out of their homes and into the wild? Or were these meager shanty-tents actually their homes?

He had little time to ponder, as he was now being brought before the largest tent. Inside said tent sat an old man with long white hair, a thick, messy white beard and blue eyes that seemed to leap out at him from the wrinkles and sacks around and below his eyes. Like his fellows, he was dressed in fur rags, with bones upon his belt and a deer-skull with antlers lying in his lap.

"Welcome to Karthspire," said the man, in a deep, meaningful voice. "Please, have a seat. I'll have my people fix you something to eat at once."

The wild men let them sit down while the old man looked at them over and over from where he sat. His eyes first fell on Torgrim, then on Asteria, and lastly on Crixus. With a wave of his finger, he gestured for Crixus to approach him. Crixus walked forward and sat down before the old man.

"Your eyes are very old," said the old man. "They seem so...out of place from your youthful body. If only the gods of my fathers could have given me the same strength and youth now. I will need all of my help to stop the menace of the white Nords."

"Is there any other kind?" Crixus added with a grin.

The old man laughed. "You know how to tickle an old man's fancy. So tell me, ranger, who are you and why were you trespassing in _my_ kingdom?"

"Skyrim belongs to the Empire," Crixus replied.

"You may lay claim to the eight eastern holds," the old man answered swiftly. "But the Reach is mine by rights."

"So you're Madanach," Crixus grinned. "My...friend Torgrim here has told me all about you."

"Did he now?" asked the old man. "I'm sure he painted me in the worst possible light. Made me out to be a monster, a murderer of young men and a violator of virgins. Just what whitey does best."

Crixus chuckled. "'Whitey?' Are you serious? That sounds like something a child would say, and not even an intelligent one."

"You know," Madanach stated. "You're very brave or foolish to be challenging the man who holds your life in his hands. You're trespassers here. My friendship I can extend to Torgrim, because he helped me escape from Cidhna Mine. But you, Imperial, I don't know you. So I have no reason to let you live, do I?"

"I'm an ambassador for the Empire," Crixus added.

Madanach halted. "You represent the Empire?"

"Yes, I do," Crixus nodded.

"Perhaps there may yet be a reason for your continued existence," Madanach stated. "And as for your question, yes, that is precisely why I chose it. It's catchy, don't you think? Has a nice ring to it, something the children can pick up on at an early age. You see, I never want the children of the Reach, the Forsworn, to forget what the white Nords did to _my_ people, how they took our land, forced us into slavery, hunted us like dogs. I don't want my people to ever forget, so I will instill upon them at an early age a name for the white Nords, a name of our undying hatred, a name to identify the Forsworn, marked with black woad as our ancestors were, and separate us from the white Nords."

Crixus nodded, then leaned in and added: "Shouldn't 'Nord' be insult enough?"

Madanach laughed. "I like you, Imperial. What did you say your name was?"

"My name is Marcus Crixus," he replied, once again using a false name.

"I thought he said his name was Septimus," Asteria whispered towards Torgrim.

"So tell me, Marcus Crixus," Madanach continued. "How is it that the Empire, deep in its war with the white Nords, has sent an emissary to my very doorstep?"

"Your doorstep?" Crixus asked. "Rumor had it that you were in the north."

"And so I was," Madanach stated. "You see, over the past twenty years, I have been father and confessor for all the people of the Reach, my kin. I have heard from their very lips the atrocities the white Nords have suffered upon them. Because of my leadership, my understanding and my undying dedication to seeing _true_ justice brought to our white oppressors, I have been made a god and king to my people. They are ready to give their lives to me, including serving as a double. You see, when you're a wanted man, like I am, you can't afford to be too careful."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "And, as far as what you wanted, well, news travels fast in Skyrim, especially for those who have an interest in keeping her united."

"Ah, I see," Madanach stated. "You must be a proud, patriotic son of the Empire, wanting to see her restored to the glory days of the Septims: from Wayrest to Tel Vanni and the Sea of Ghosts to the Topal Bay. Well, that seems to present quite a problem. You see, I intend to make the Reach my own, just as it was during your war with the elves, and I have no intention of serving any foreign power, especially one that treats with scum like the white Nords."

"You misunderstand me," Crixus interjected. "I wasn't sent here to demand your submission. I was here to request a treaty."

"A treaty?" Madanach coyly asked.

"One that will prove mutually beneficial for our two sides," Crixus added.

"Is there anything you are prepared to give me that I could want?" Madanach asked.

"Autonomy," Crixus began. "Formal recognition as an independent nation, support in driving the Nords out of the Reach, our promise not to invade your lands. Have I missed anything?"

Madanach chuckled. "You're a clever one, Marcus Crixus. But, unfortunately for you, silver-tonuged Colovian, so am I. Now I know that treaties can be manipulated based on anything that might be left out. So if there is to be a treaty between the Empire and the Kingdom of the Reach, you must understand that I will not be entering this lightly. There will be no stipulations that apply to me for your benefit only, no clauses which allow you to field armies in my land against my wishes. Is that clear?"

Crixus raised his eyebrows. "Not bad. Nevertheless, what I want is not to subdue you, o great king. Nor is that the worry of my Empire."

"Explain yourself."

"Our enemy lies to the east, in Windhelm," Crixus continued. "Our only interest in the Reach is to maintain stability in the region. If there is great chaos, the rebels might decide to strike here, which would put them one step closer to taking the throne of SKyrim. And let me tell you this, great king: if Ulfric Stormcloak takes the crown of Skyrim, it will be bad for us all. He's a Nord, a white Nord as you call them: he will declare his independence from the Empire, weakening us greatly, while he leads another slaughter towards the Reach like he did after the War."

"We agree on this, my friend," Madanach nodded. "Ulfric Stormcloak must not be allowed to succeed. It is for the greater good of my people...and for yours."

"Indeed," Crixus grinned. "So, let's draw up a little contract, shall we?"

* * *

**(AN: Bleh, these chapters are getting boring to write. I've also realized that most of my chapters [despite what my reviewers said] are very heavy and serious and grim. I just re-watched _Ironclad_, a truly great medieval movie, that was both grim, filthy and gory as the real Middle Ages were [infected wounds, filthy living conditions, a very dark, grim visual style, Paul Giamatti and Vladimir Kulich], but there were still some light moments. And then i realized that my _Skyrim_ stories, especially _The Dragon and the Bear_, lacked very many light-hearted moments. In my opinion, that leaves them hard to swallow and even harder to write. I need more levity! [cue the reviews of "oh, there were light moments" or "but you said this would be darker!" lol])**


	34. Secrets in the Snow

**(AN: Another sub-plot on the horizon, because we don't have enough to make this story sufficiently bloated and meandering as my brother believes RPGs should be: he seems to ignore the fact that, despite being based on an RPG, THIS IS A STORY FIRST AND FOREMOST! I swore i wouldn't do another one hundred+ chapter story, but we've only just finished the first act and we're at thirty-something chapters.)**

**(Oh well, here is the next chapter with some familiar faces and new ones as well. Hope you enjoy it.)  
**

* * *

**Secrets in the Snow**

Crixus, Torgrim and Asteria stayed with the Forsworn for three days. While there, Crixus asked Madanach if they could be outfitted with supplies for the journey back into eastern Skyrim. He admitted that he had lost both of their horses and all of their supplies and that it was his duty to recover them. Though Madanach could do nothing about horses, since there were few horses in the Reach and none of them belonged to the Forsworn, he was able to outfit them with food, blankets and dry kindling, as well as a new bow for Crixus. He did not care much for the crude design, but Crixus said nothing.

Meanwhile, during their stay, Torgrim seemed to forget his previous anger towards Crixus. During one evening meal, Crixus managed to ask him about his change in behavior.

"It's because of what happened with Madanach," Torgrim replied.

"Come again?" Crixus asked.

"I didn't know you were so tender-hearted," Torgrim stated. "But when we were brought here, and I saw you looking into the eyes of the children in the camp, I saw that you were moved. You wanted to help them, just as much as I wanted to help them as well."

"No one should be forced to live in squalor like these people have been forced to by the Nords," Crixus replied. "That's common sense, not a tender-heart."

"Perhaps what Asteria said about you Imperials was right," Torgrim added.

"And what's that?"

"You hide your true thoughts and feelings," Torgrim stated.

"Because they're my business and nobody else's, is that understood?" Crixus asked. "I'm not obliged to tell anyone about who I am or why I do the things I do, and no one is obliged to listen to me if I suddenly decided to do that."

"What if we _want_ to listen?" Torgrim asked. "Come now, we're all friends here, right?"

"Says the one who wanted to tear my head off for losing our horses on the river?" asked Crixus with a cynical grin.

"I was just caught up in the fury of the moment," Torgrim apologized. "I should not have it you, I apologize."

"Whatever," Crixus replied. "Not the first time I've been punched without warning."

"Still, why do you protest?" Torgrim asked. "What is so bad about showing your better side?"

"I have no better side," Crixus grimly stated. "I lost it during the Great War."

"The Great War's been over for twenty years," Torgrim replied. "Isn't it time you moved on?"

Just then, a woman in the furs, bones and feathers of the Forsworn walked into their tent.

"The King would speak with Marcus Crixus," she said.

Crixus sighed inwardly: the conversation was becoming too uncomfortable for his liking and he was grateful for the interruption. Excusing himself, he followed the woman back through the camp to the main tent. While they went, Crixus examined the woman from behind: her outfit left little to the imagination. But Crixus found her short, shapely legs and her gently curving hips to be more than alluring. He tried to think if he had ever tried Breton women, but his thoughts were interrupted as he saw Madanach sitting out front of his tent, roasting something upon an open fire.

"Ah, Crixus, there you are," he greeted. He turned to the woman and dismissed her with a "That will be all, Alis." She bowed, then went on her way. Once she was gone, Madanach turned back to Crixus.

"I found something of yours," he began. "Well, it _could_ be something of yours. But if that were the case, then it would be that you've lied to me."

"If I withheld information," Crixus stated. "It was for protection only, not because I didn't trust you."

"Then you will understand, Servius Crixus," Madanach returned, using Crixus' true given name. "Why I am unwilling to surrender or name what I have acquired of yours. Yes, I know it's you. I've been living around dishonest people for twenty years, I think I can tell when someone is lying to me. But I need to know if I can trust you...for _my_ protection, you understand."

"What do you want to know?" Crixus asked, holding out his arms.

Madanach rose from his seat. "Just this morning, my scouts shot down a raven flying west, towards Markarth. Naturally, we roasted the bird..." He gestured to his fire-pit. "...and it was given to their King: to me. But before the bird was plucked and dressed, there was a note found on the bird. I took the liberty of reading the note and found it addressed to one Servius Crixus in the Reach, from Scipio Marcurio in Winterhold."

"And you assumed because my name was Crixus," Crixus replied. "That I had something to do with this letter."

"Do not play me for a fool, Servius Crixus," Madanach returned. "What you've done is lie to me, and right now..." He reached into his belt and pulled out the note. "...you have a letter from a Stormcloak hold, possibly written by a Nord, an agent of Ulfric's, using this false name, just as you used a false name yourself."

"I assure you," Crixus stated. "The person in question exists, and he is not a rebel."

"Then what is this loyalist doing in a rebel hold, then?" Madanach asked. "Hobnobbing with the white..."

"Just call them Nords," Crixus retorted. "That's insult enough for their bastard race."

"Not in my heart," Madanach replied. "And you are the one whose life is in the balances, so it would be wise of you to show less insolence before your King."

"You're not my King!"

"You're in _my_ realm!" Madanach retorted.

Uneasy silence fell between the two of them. Looking here and there about the tents, Crixus saw several other Forsworn reaching for their weapons and eying him suspiciously. Though Madanach was not into his own as King of the Reach, he had enough men in this camp to behave as if he were King already. Crixus finally nodded.

"Very well...your Majesty."

"Now that's the spirit," Madanach smiled. "Though I should say that I may have overreacted. I am a wanted man and must be wary of all things. We would have killed you if Torgrim were not with you. But this letter is still an issue." He held it forth to Crixus' reach again. "Take it, read it aloud to me, and prove your innocence."

Crixus took the note from Madanach, opened it up and began to read from it.

_It has been a while since we last shared the road together. Things at the College of Winterhold are rather boring, as there is not much left of the city after the Great Collapse. However, the Arch-Mage of the College is organizing an excavation of the Saarthal site which we saw while coming up there. Knowing what secrets might lie in Saarthal, I was wondering if you might be willing to join us at the excavation site. There will be plenty of beer, of course, and secrets of the ancient Nords which both of us would find interesting: me for my own personal knowledge and you to debunk their traditions._

_Best wishes,_

_Scipio Marcurio_

_PS - If old ruins do not interest you, how about some coin to be made as a guard on the site? The old Nord ruins are bound to be popular for tomb robbers and bandits, and there are rumors about a rogue sorcerer in the eastern Pale, causing trouble to wayward travelers on their way to the Shrine of Azura. I'm sure I can convince Savos Aren, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, to compensate you for your time sufficiently._

"There is nothing else," Crixus stated. "Since I'm sure you examined the letter before giving it to me, you can plainly see no hidden messages or cyphers written into the text."

"How do I know there isn't any code hidden in plain sight?"

Crixus snickered. "Code for what? The Nords are afraid of magic, and they're too dumb to use codes in their messages."

Madanach chuckled. "I can attest to the former. Most of the Forsworn are Witch-blades, with a rudimentary knowledge of necromancy. But any kind of magicka is feared by the white Nords."

"Right?" Crixus asked. "Then you know that this isn't a rebel ploy of any kind."

"I still don't see how an ambassador and emissary could take an interest to old ruins," Madanach stated.

"I do a lot more than emissary work, your Majesty," Crixus replied. "Though you would be happy to know that, as Marcurio stated, I do have an interest in Nordic tombs. I'm actually writing a book."

"A book!" Madanach exclaimed. "Will it be another rousing history like Arius' _The Bear of Markarth_?"

"Actually it will be about Nords in particular," Crixus grinned. "I want to take their violent, blood-thirsty history out of the shadow of song and legend and parade it naked before the great minds of Cyrodiil, so that all may know just what kind of monsters the people of the Nord race are."

Madanach laughed. "A noble goal! I daresay, I myself could give you enough eyewitness accounts to fill five volumes! The truth deserves to be heard."

"That it does, your Majesty." Crixus replied.

"How then," Madanach asked. "Could I possibly stand in the way of such a noble enterprise? I will have my men send you on your way, escorting you as far east as Broken Tower Redoubt. From there, you'll be on your own."

"Not to worry, your Majesty," Crixus replied. "I've been on my own since I arrived in Skyrim."

* * *

It did not take Crixus, Torgrim and Asteria long to find Broken Tower Redoubt with the help of the Forsworn. In fact, the first day of their travel was merely following their lead through the gullies and ravines of the eastern Reach. Once they arrived at Broken Tower Redoubt, a small fortress built into the side of a ravine which sloped back up to the emerald plains of Whiterun, their escort turned back and were soon lost in the crags and valleys behind them.

They would have immediately gone north-east, towards Morthal, but a thunderstorm broke down upon the plains of Whiterun, forcing them to take shelter at Rorikstead. They stayed at the Frostfruit Inn that night, where Crixus was able to purchase horses for their journey as well as a few more supplies at a small trading post. By now Torgrim had forgiven him and they were drinking on into the night like two old friends.

Asteria still did not have her lute.

In the morning, they learned that the storm had passed and they would have clear skies for the present. They rode all day and made a rude camp along a brook north of the Whiterun plains. After this, they awoke and went on their way again, arriving this time at Morthal. Here, at the Moorside Inn, they were forced to stay within earshot of Lurbuk, the Orc bard who could not sing. While they were enjoying the afternoon off from their labors, Crixus laid out their plans for them.

"We're going to have to split up here," he said. "It's been exciting, these past few days, but I'm afraid that I have to go alone into the Pale. I suggest you two go to Torgrim's house, whose address I will require from you, Torgrim, later."

"South of Windstad Estate," Torgrim stated. "Within a bow's shot of the Stonehills mine. You can't miss it."

"Good," Crixus nodded. "Because I will have to go back to Solitude to pick some things up, then I will drop by there and give you, Asteria, a new lute."

"I hope so," she ruefully replied.

"But I won't be staying long," Crixus began, but his train of thought suddenly faded when he saw a familiar red-haired figure sitting alone at one corner of the bar. He excused himself, then walked over to the Nord bandit, drinking by herself.

"Why the long face, Eisa?" he asked.

"Oh, you've got some balls showing your face to me," Eisa retorted, quiet anger in her voice. "After what you did, that little stunt in the Pale."

"You're alive, aren't you?" Crixus asked.

"And that's more than can be said about my friends!" Eisa stated. "And poor Ma'Iir, frozen to death on the side of a mountain, holding Marlena's cold body in his hands."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, now, I would like to hire your services..."

"Forget it," she retorted. "I'm through with you. Now piss off before you get us both killed!"

"You don't have to get me through the entire Pale," Crixus stated. "Just as far as Dawnstar, without the rebels noticing. I have business there."

"Even if I wanted to," Eisa seethed. "You haven't the coin for it."

"Aha," Crixus stated. "But I've got plenty of drakes back home, and I'll be back with them shortly. So what do you say?"

"I say...fuck off," Eisa returned, placing down her cup and crossing her arms. "You got all my friends killed, why should I bother with you again?"

"Because I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams," Crixus stated. "Plus, I was in the Imperial Legion. You need a skilled warrior at your side."

"I don't need nothing," Eisa returned. "Especially not from you."

Crixus grinned as he walked away, mouthing under his breath. "You'll be back."

* * *

The last day of the month of Rain's Hand. A cold Middas morning in the Pale, where even Rain's Hand meant blizzards. The small camp around the ruins of Saarthal were buried in snow that morning, which meant that quite a few mages had to conjure flames to melt the snow off their tents in order to keep going that day. Outside, the weather was still bitingly cold, despite the secluded ice cliffs around most of the ancient city.

Marcurio did not melt the snow with the others, for he did not want his tent to become soaked through. Instead, he donned gloves and pushed the snow off the tent with his bare hands. There would be another expedition today, though it would probably end up being mostly clearing away the snow and ice that had fallen down into their dig-site. While he was moving snow, he saw a lone figure on a horse come galloping into the camp. One hand reached for his dagger while the other hovered empty in a threatening gesture as he began muttering the words to summon a fire-ball. If this was another bandit, he would be the first one to take him out and take what he might have on him.

But, by and by, the rider approached and, as he came to the camp, Marcurio sighed with relief when he saw who it was.

"Crixus!" he cried out, lowering his arms. "You old bastard! I didn't think you'd make it."

"Wolves, mud-crabs and the Forsworn couldn't keep me away," Crixus commented, dismounting from off his horse. "A lot has happened since we parted ways. Perhaps you would like to hear some of them?"

"Oh, yes," Marcurio nodded. "But not right now. We have work to do. We're going down to the dig-site below today, if we can get out of our tents, that is."

"Mid-spring snows, eh?" Crixus asked as he led the horse over to a hitching post near Marcurio's tent. "It's that 'beautiful' Skyrim weather again, I tro."

"Exactly," Marcurio stated.

While they were talking, Crixus noticed a young Dunmer woman clad in the silver-white mage robes stepping out of a tent nearby Marcurio's tent. Aside from her hood, which covered her head and most of the forehead, there was just enough of her for Crixus to see just how beautiful she was. Any one, whether Nord or Colovian, who had never seen Dunmer before would have said that she looked no different than any other Dunmer: blue-gray skin, red eyes, pronounced cheek-bones, brow and temple ridges which gave their faces a very skull-like appearance which many found frightening. But Crixus had been around Dunmer in Mournhold for so long that he could tell Dunmer apart by more than merely if they were male or female. Aside from her rough skull structure, her chin and nose were very smooth. When she saw the newcomer looking at her, she smiled: the lack of wrinkles around her deep-set eyes made Crixus see that she was young, and the smile obviously meant that she wasn't of House Redoran.

"Uh," Marcurio cleared his throat. "Introductions. Crixus, this is Brelyna Maryon. She's a student at the College, studying the School of Conjuration magicka."

"Martin Crixus," Crixus lied, extending his hand. Brelyna eyed his hand for a moment, then looked at Marcurio. He held out his hand and shook it slightly, after which Brelyna nodded and shook Crixus' hand a bit vigorously.

"Servius Crixus," Marcurio stated. "Is an old friend of mine. We came through here earlier this month. I first met him in the Rift, saved his arse from the Stormcloaks."

"Martin," Crixus grumbled.

Marcurio placed one hand on Crixus' shoulder and led him aside, whispering into his ear. "We're all friends here, there's no reason to be giving out false information. Besides, the Stormcloaks don't bother with the College business. Remember? They're afraid of magic."

"Right," Crixus grinned.

"So which is it?" Brelyna asked. "Martin or Servius?"

"Call me Crixus," he replied. "Everyone else does."

"It's nice to meet you, Crixus," she returned, grinning slightly.

"Oh, just a heads up," Marcurio interjected, leaning in to Crixus and muttering. "Don't ask her too many personal questions. She gets upset over that, thinks everyone is always asking her her business."

Crixus nodded. "So, can either of you tell me why we're here?"

"Field work," Brelyna began. "Tolfdir, one of our teachers, has sent us out here to examine the old ruins. He says we're here to study the old binding magicks the Atmorans placed on their dead."

"Wait a minute, Nords practicing magic?" Crixus asked in disbelief.

"I told you they did that," Marcurio added knowingly.

"It's also a great opportunity for the College library to get a few new volumes printed," Brelyna added. "It's not every day you get to go into something so ancient."

"I'll say," Crixus remarked. "So, what happens now?"

"Once we've dug ourselves out of the snow," Marcurio replied. "We look for Tolfdir."

* * *

Crixus, Marcurio and Brelyna took a few minutes pawing and shoveling snow out from around their tents, then waited as they saw a group of young men and women making their way down into what had, from afar, looked like nothing more than a snow-covered gulch. As the three of them made their way thither, Crixus saw that it was actually part of the dig-site, with a slippery ladder, freshly brushed off of snow, leading down into the dig-site.

As they reached the bottom, Crixus saw the other students of the College that had come down on this excavation. They all wore the same silver-white robes as Brelyna, but they were of varying shapes, sizes and races. Nearby he saw a Redguard woman, an Argonian male, a group of young Imperials, a Bosmer, only two Nords and a Khajiit whom the others were giving a wide berth around him. Crixus wondered if he was ill or if he just had a really bad smell. While they were waiting, an elderly Nord walked out in front of the group. Crixus blinked at first, thinking he had seen wrong, then took another look. To his surprise, the old Nord had eyes of a different color: his right eye was a bright, hazel-brown while the left eye was green.

"Well, the local weather hasn't been too kind to us," the old man said to his students. "But there haven't been any collapses, so I believe that it will be safe for us to go down into the city. Remember, if you see anything, don't hesitate to let me or Master Gane know about it. Now, without further ado, let's go on inside."

Crixus followed Marcurio and Brelyna as they and the others joined a press of people on their way to what appeared to be a door in the side of the little snow gulch. It was actually an ancient stone arch that had been part of a building that was part of the main city. Now they began to go down into what had once been part of a two-story house, the roof of the ground level being the floor upon which they had stood just a moment ago. From the front of the group, Candlelight spells were being cast, sending brilliant balls of blue-white light illuminating the dark room around them.

While they went, Crixus heard one of the two Nords walking behind him mutter something in a fearful voice.

"This isn't right, any of it," he quivered. "Our ancestors should be allowed to rest in peace."

Crixus rolled his eyes: another superstitious Nord. It confounded him as to why such a one would even be here at the College, but he was not feeling up to pressing the issue. He had been around Madanach too long and away from ignorant Nords long enough to actually consider cutting them some slack. Instead, he made his way down into a stone room filled with light, where old Tolfdir, whom Crixus assumed was the old man with the eyes of two colors, gave them their orders.

"We're inside what appears to have been a rich man's house," Tolfdir said. "Now, why don't we all spread out and search for anything that resonates with residual energies of magicka? Warding spells, rune traps, enchanted items: the nature of which is irrelevant. Merely find something and report it back to either myself or Master Gane. We will be here if you need us."

Marcurio led the way toward one of the doors in the stone house, a Candlelight spell of his own held aloft in his hand. Crixus followed on behind while Brelyna brought up the rear, a Candlelight spell in her own hands.

"So I see you finally learned that spell," Crixus noted.

"Might just raise my price because of it," Marcurio chuckled. "After all, they're paying for my Destruction spells, my charming company _and_ light in a dark place? I'd say that's worth a raise in fee."

Crixus laughed. "So, what do we do here? Just look around?"

"Exactly," said Marcurio. "We need to clear this ice tunnel, though. It's the only way through the streets of Saarthal, since it was all buried beneath thousands of years of snow and ice."

"Incredible!" they heard Brelyna exclaim behind them.

"But the old man said something about detecting resonating energies of residual magic," Crixus stated. "How are we supposed to do that?"

"Detect Magicka," Brelyna pointed out. "One of the rudimentary spells Master Neloren teaches of the school of Illusion magic. A very simple spell, it opens the user's perception to the ebb and flow of the currents of magicka, allowing one to see where the powerful energies have been harnessed, or where there is a concentration of such."

"Well, do any of you know that spell?" Crixus asked.

"I do," Brelyna stated, her voice short-tempered. "Just...just give me a minute to concentrate."

"It's okay, he doesn't know," Marcurio interjected. "I'll keep the light on, you just take your time." Marcurio then pulled Crixus aside, out of the ice tunnel and into another stone house, one whose ceiling had collapsed in on itself.

"She's from House Telvanni," Marcurio began. "Her family sent her here, since everyone in House Telvanni are mages, she's expected to be one as well. Not something she enjoys having brought up, though."

"I didn't know that," Crixus replied. He then looked Marcurio in the eyes. "Wait a minute, Telvanni? No, see, I was in Mournhold for twenty years, and as far as I've heard, Telvanni is all but dead."

"House Telvanni isn't dead," Brelyna spoke up. "It's true, we suffered just like the rest of the Dunmer. But we are rebuilding. Many wizards are making their way back to Vvardenfell, part of some great plan to rebuild and recolonize. They've done their best to keep the flora and fauna of Morrowind alive. It's a Telvanni mage who saved the last silt strider from extinction, and there are rumors that one is growing mushrooms on Solstheim."

"A silt strider?" Crixus asked.

Brelyna chuckled. "A Telvanni wizard!"

Marcurio laughed while Crixus looked about at the stone room into which they were walking. It seemed strange that a people so backwards could have built something that lasted this long and was still in such good condition, weather conditions included. For a moment, Brelyna gasped in awe.

"Amazing!" she gasped.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"To think that people once lived here!" Brelyna exclaimed jubilantly. "In these old holes in the ground! We're standing on the same stones where my ancestors killed Onmund's ancestors!"

"Not something you should bring up," Marcurio stated.

"Why?" an oblivious Brelyna asked.

"Because Nords are arses," Crixus interjected. "They hold grudges and kill people who are different from them."

"And these aren't just holes in the ground," Marcurio interjected. "These are some of the finest pieces of Nordic stone-masonry in centuries upon centuries." He looked around, holding up his Candlelight spell to the caved in roof nearby. "It sure puts the newer masonry to shame, I'll tell you that."

"Well, if it were so good," Crixus commented. "Why aren't they still making stone cities? Why did they give up stone-masonry and instead build shitty straw huts to live in?"

"They live in huts?" Brelyna asked. "Granted, I've only seen Winterhold and Windhelm, but those were mostly stone. It's kind of funny, actually, that you humans live in straw huts."

"Excuse me," Crixus spoke up. "Don't you ever put me in the same fucking category as a Nord!"

"Why?" Brelyna asked. "What's wrong?"

"Like I said before," Crixus continued. "Nords are arses. Imperials are in no way related to them and calling us alike is an insult, like if someone called you a yurt-dwelling ash-lander."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Brelyna replied, sounding genuinely sorry. "I didn't know. It's just, well, you know, there weren't many humans back home. They just don't seem that interesting, I suppose I never learned about them."

"Well, we're not all the same," Crixus added. "And _we_..." He gestured between himself and Marcurio. "...are Imperials. We don't live in straw-huts, we live in stone houses."

"Like this one?" Brelyna asked.

"Better," Crixus added.

"I don't see what the big deal is, though," she stated. "It's just stone, not as comfortable as a mushroom."

"To each their own, then, huh?" asked Crixus. "Now, about that spell..."

"Don't rush me!" Brelyna retorted. "I'm still concentrating."

Crixus rolled his eyes, then brought Marcurio over to the collapsed part of the house to examine the wall under the Candlelight spell.

"Seems like a normal cave-in," Crixus stated. "Though I'm not very good at discerning what causes collapses. I'd have thought that there'd be more signs of battle: dry-rotted weapons, old armor, maybe even some frozen corpses if we're really lucky."

"I should point you to Heseph Chirirnis' report on the Fall of Saarthal," Marcurio stated. "It can be found in the College library, the Arcanaeum. I'm sure Urag gro-Shub, the librarian, might let you borrow it...as long as you promise not to break it."

Brelyna giggled. "That Urag, though. Always so grumpy. Someone just needs to tell that old Orc to calm down once in a while. Nobody's going to be burning up your books or getting shein-stains on the pages! Azura's mercy, don't get your six pig-tits all twisted up!"

"They don't have six," Crixus stated. "I've seen Orcs naked before, they don't have six."

"Wait a minute!" Brelyna suddenly spoke up, one hand held up dramatically as the other held aloft a sphere of indigo blue light.

"What?" Crixus asked. "What is it?"

"There's something just up ahead," Brelyna stated. "To the north, it seems. An item of great magical power."

"I'll go find Tolfdir," Marcurio began, starting to make his way back through the doorway into the ice tunnel.

"No!" Crixus retorted, his voice reverberating off of the close stone walls around them. "First rule of military strategy: a company always sticks together."

"This isn't the Legion," Brelyna replied.

"Battle might arise at any moment," Crixus stated. "We should stick together."

"Don't be paranoid," Brelyna chuckled. "There's nothing here but old stone and broken pottery."

"I'm not paranoid!" Crixus retorted. "I don't foolishly believe there are Thalmor agents behind every bush or-or any of those lies that Ulfric Stormcloak preaches as if they were true. I'm a soldier, I believe in being prepared for anything. That doesn't make me paranoid."

"Trust me, Brelyna," Marcurio interjected, turning to the young elf. "He _is_ paranoid."

"I am not paranoid, you arse-hole!" Crixus retorted.

"You're the one who dragged us through Heljarchen Vale," Marcurio stated. "Because you were afraid the Thalmor were hiding in Whiterun."

"That's not paranoia, that's being careful!" Crixus defended. "I didn't know a thing about this god-forsaken land. With so many stupid Nords, I had only assumed that they were all sleeping on their guard so much that the Thalmor could basically walk into every hold wherever they wanted."

"Sounds like paranoia," Marcurio stated.

"It's not paranoia!" Crixus retorted. "It's being wise, you fuck!"

"Why the language?" Marcurio asked. "You sound as if you have something to defend."

"There's nothing to defend," Crixus smirked. "I was right. I'm always right."

"Can we just go this way now, please?" Brelyna asked, holding up the blue light in her hand.

* * *

They went on their way, out of the ruined building and into the ice tunnels. Brelyna and Marcurio took the lead, with Crixus following on behind them. The path they followed was littered with rock and gravel, imported from the drier climes of Skyrim, to give their boots grip on the slick stone floors of the streets of Saarthal. After a lengthy walk, the tunnel through which they were going branched, with one path snaking upwards through the snow and the main path continuing on in front for about ten feet before a wooden fence blocked the path.

"Strange," Brelyna commented. "Whatever magic I'm detecting is directly in front of us."

"Everyone stay together," Marcurio said. "I'm going to summon a ball of Mage-light to see what's down this tunnel. We might black out for a while, so don't go anywhere."

"Do you think I'm a child, Marcurio?" Crixus asked.

Marcurio rolled his eyes, then closed his left hand, extinguishing the ball of Candlelight spell. He murmured quietly and a ball of the same light went soaring through the air down the tunnel, until it struck what appeared to be the end of the tunnel. About three feet into the tunnel, beyond the wooden barrier, the tunnel had collapsed, blocking the path with snow, ice and large pieces of stone, some of which were broken and eroded but looked otherwise as though they had once been part of a main structure.

"Can't go any farther that way," Brelyna commented. "I guess we'll try the left-hand path."

Marcurio summoned the Candlelight spell into his hand once again, then they turned away into the other path. This one wound upwards into the ice, with wooden beams dug into the ice to keep their feet from slipping as they went their way. They passed on up and up until the path came upon what appeared to be an archway in a section of wall that had caved in, possibly causing the collapse below. Into that arch they passed, walking onto a wooden platform which led down into the bottom of some great height.

"What is this?" Crixus asked.

"The legendary Temple of Saarthal," Marcurio stated. "One of the largest structures in the city. According to legend, this was where the ancient spiritual rituals of the ancient Atmorans were held on Skyrim."

"Why is it so damn wide?" Crixus asked, looking up at the ceiling. A moment ago it was bathed in a faint blue glow from Marcurio's spell, but as they passed down the stairs of the catwalks, the light faded and the roof disappeared.

"There are few shrines of the old dragon cults remaining in Skyrim to this day," Marcurio explained. "Most of them were destroyed during the Merethic Era, when the Tongues revolted against the dragons. Any others were lost to time. But this..." He looked down at the wide sanctuary of the Temple of Saarthal, filled with enough light from torches and Candlelight spells to illuminate the massive room.

"...what?" Crixus asked.

"It's amazing!" Marcurio gasped, his voice echoing in the wide chamber. "I mean, I've seen the runes on the walls of many tombs and crypts across Skyrim, all of them talking about this place. But I didn't think it was possible that it could actually exist. Mostly it seemed as just a legend, something too great to be true."

"What?" Crixus asked again.

"My friends," Marcurio muttered. "This was the Sanctuary of Meeting in the great Temple, where the nine high priests of the dragon cult stood in the presence of their winged gods."

As they made their way to the bottom, they saw the great stone temple was in remarkably good condition for a thousands year old structure. The entrance of the temple had collapsed, but there was enough intact for them to see what remained of the massive temple. Large stone pillars held up the lofty roof, while monolithic rune-stones surrounded a wide raised stone platform in the center of the room.

"Dragons?" Crixus asked with a scoff. "They worshiped dragons in here? How did they get down here?"

"You must understand," Marcurio interjected. "This wasn't lost in Ysgramor's day. Back then, all of this was above ground. Centuries upon centuries of snowfall have buried most of the city. We're lucky that so much has survived since then."

"Uh-huh," Crixus mused.

"It's quite big," Brelyna gasped, still in awe at the sheer size of the temple.

"That's because dragons came here," Marcurio stated. "In my research, I've heard rumors of this place. Most of the reports were scratched out of where I found them. There was only enough in each places for me to get a hint at what this might be. They said that the Sanctuary of Meeting was so wide, a dragon could fly down and stand in the middle of the temple. Maybe..." With his ball of Candlelight in one hand, Marcurio knelt down by the short rune-stones around the raised platform.

"Wait a minute, scratched out?" Brelyna asked. "What do you mean scratched out?"

"I mean exactly that," Marcurio returned. "Most references to this place were scratched out of the walls of the tombs and crypts where I found them."

"Scratched out of stone?" Brelyna asked incredulously.

"Yes," Marcurio nodded, his voice sounding very serious.

"How was that even possible?" asked Crixus.

"I believe it might have been the draugr who did the scratching," Marcurio grimly replied. "The bodies of undead Nord warriors, kings and housecarls. Over the centuries, guarding their tombs, they scratched out any mention of this place from the walls."

"How did they do it?" Brelyna gasped.

"Well, they're undead," Marcurio pointed out. "They feel no pain. And since they're undying, they have an eternity to scratch out these words if whoever controlled them commanded them to do so. But why they would do it, I don't know."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Well, even as much as I know about the ancient Nordic tombs," Marcurio stated. "Translating the Dragon Tongue has been difficult. Most of the tombs dating from Ysgramor's time have the runes written in the language of the dragons. The newer ones have runes in the old Nordic tongue, but there are so few of those prior to the Alessian Era. There was an old man in the Rift who knew a little: he was a student of the Greybeards before he left the Way of the Voice. Said it was too strict for him."

"Who are the Greybeards?" Crixus asked.

"Old men living up on High Hrothgar," said Marcurio. "It's said that they do not even speak, for their voices are so strong, they can shake the very stones of the mountain. They practice the ancient art of the Voice, a powerful kind of magic which draws upon the Dragon Tongue to perform great deeds of power."

"I've heard legends about the Voice," said Crixus. "Tiber Septim used it to break the gates of Old Hroldan and slaughter all the defenders, Nord and Reachmen." He chuckled. "One of the more ridiculous legends said that he used the Voice to make Cyrodiil livable for humans. Lately, that bastard Ulfric Stormcloak used the Voice to slaughter everyone in Markarth and murder the Nordic High King in cold blood!"

"That sounds uncommonly sympathetic," Marcurio stated.

"And what does that mean exactly?" asked Crixus.

"Just that it's no secret you hate Nords," Marcurio continued. "So why would you care what happened to Torygg?"

"Because it was nothing more than a power-play," Crixus retorted. "Just like Tiber Septim. And his act of murder hurt more than just the stability of Skyrim. I know from personal experience what kind of damage the Voice can do. It's a power too great for anyone to control, even the wizards of the Synod or the College of Whispers."

There was an uncomfortable silence, after which Brelyna knelt next to Marcurio, who was examining the small rune-stones.

"The runes," she said meekly. "What do they read?"

"It's hard to make out," Marcurio replied. "They're preserved, but the script is the Dragon Tongue, which few other than the Greybeards kno..."

"'Come no further,'" Crixus muttered aloud, his voice echoing in the wide hall of the ancient temple. "'Death awaits those who defy the dragon gods.'"

"You read the Dragon Tongue?" Marcurio asked, looking at Crixus with renewed surprise.

"Uh...no," Crixus replied. "Of course not. It...well, I saw those words before. Someone read them to me."

"How could you have seen those exact words before?" Marcurio asked. "There's no reference to this place left in any of the tombs or crypts across Skyrim."

"Wait, wait!" Brelyna suddenly exploded. "The spell is detecting something."

"What?" Marcurio and Crixus asked as one.

"Something very powerful," she returned. "Off to the north!" She gestured towards the widest portion of the room.

"I'll find Tolfdir," Marcurio added as he went off into the dimly-lit temple hall. Meanwhile, Crixus followed the blue light in Brelyna's hand. The little Dunmer made her way to the far end of the room, to a short alcove at the back of the temple hall up against the wall. As she stepped inside, the blue orb in her hand pulsating with the close proximity of the magical artifact, Crixus saw that the entrance to the alcove had several holes cut into the rock on the floor, the sides of the entrance and the ceiling.

"Brelyna," he said. "Come look at this."

"Not right now, Crixus," she replied. "I think I found it. Over here!"

Crixus followed Brelyna to the far side of the alcove, where there was a stone wall. Upon the wall was a niche, cut into the rock of the wall life a small shelf. Hanging inside said niche was an amulet. Brelyna's orb seemed to glow brighter and pulse quicker as she held her hand up to it. From behind, they could hear footsteps as Marcurio brought Tolfdir towards where they had came while Brelyna picked up the amulet to examine it.

"Curious," she muttered, reaching out to touch it.

"Wait, don't!" Crixus interjected, guessing the meaning of the holes in the rock he had seen before.

Too late. Behind there was a sharp clang. Turning around, Crixus saw in the light of the Candlelight spells held by Marcurio and Tolfdir many iron spears crisscrossing the entrance to the alcove. Crixus kicked one with his foot, hoping that centuries of rust had eaten the spears away into impotence. The metal spears clanged, his foot ached, and tiny flakes of crimson rust fell to the stone floor as dust: but the spears did not break.

"Great going, Brelyna," Crixus groaned. "You've got us trapped in here."

"How should I have known?" Brelyna asked, her tone defensive. "This is the first time I've been here."

"Maybe if you would have just used your head?"

"Children, please," Tolfdir interjected. "Let us keep our heads about us, only then may we find the riddle to your escape."

"Can you squeeze through the bars?" Marcurio asked.

"Not even if I were a child," Crixus murmured. "They're too small."

"Hmm," Tolfdir mused. "This is puzzling. I wonder if your spells might have any affect."

Brelyna stammered for a moment, then suddenly came running back to the cut off entrance, the amulet in her hands. "The wall seems to be glowing. Ever since I picked up the amulet, the wall at the other end of this tunnel is glowing."

"Try casting a spell towards the wall," Marcurio suggested. "Like the old man said."

Brelyna turned around and there was suddenly a burst of heat as a fire-ball soared towards the opposite wall. With a loud crack and dirt falling down from cracks in the ceiling, the wall crumbled and, at the end, the spears slid back into the holes. With their Candlelight spells raised, Marcurio and Tolfdir entered the alcove and strode up to the pile of rubble. Directly beyond it, where the wall had once stood, a gaping hole led into a dark tunnel that stank of dry rot. If the Sanctuary of Meeting had been eerie, what with its massive size, strange runes and the likelihood that dragons once came here to assert their dominance over the superstitious Nord people, this gaping hole was just as dark and fearsome.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Tolfdir and Arniel were leading Brelyna, Crixus and Marcurio into the hole that had been opened up. Arniel brought up the rear while Tolfdir and Brelyna were at the front, with Marcurio and Crixus in the center, the latter holding a sword in his hands, as any torch-light was lost in the glow of Tolfdir and Arniel's Candlelight spells. With each step of the way they made into this dark tunnel, the old man murmured on about this great find.

"Incredible!" he mused. "This tunnel and the runes on the wall are perfectly preserved. No one has been down here since this city was built: perhaps even before that!"

They went onward, the path from the alcove leading down many stone steps, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. Eventually they came to a place where the tunnel led to a round room with a low, flat ceiling. Here they halted, as the bald Breton Arniel Gane examined the walls of the room and Tolfdir caught his breath with the others around him. In the light of the Candlelight spell in Master Gane's hand, they saw the hall was lined with stone sarcophagi, each one closed with a stone lid.

"What is this place?" Crixus asked. "Where are we?"

"Many feet below the ground, that's for sure," Tolfdir replied. "We've come a long way from the surface. But this room...it almost looks like a crypt. Strange that those stone coffins would be placed upright, instead of inside niches cut out of the solid rock. If this _is_ a crypt, it is unlike any that has been unearthed across Skyrim's landscape in years. But if it was only a crypt, then why was it sealed off at the end of this tunnel?"

"A crypt?" Crixus asked. "A burial place."

"Yes," Marcurio added. "The ancient Atmorans were obsessed with death and the afterlife. But what Tolfdir said is true: the stone coffins were never placed upright, lying against the walls like so."

"This is highly unusual," Tolfdir gasped. "And very interesting."

Crixus looked about the chamber. Master Gane was examining the stone coffins lining the walls of the round room. Marcurio was examining the floor, which was stony and had several canals filled with collapsed wood. If there had been water in those canals, it was long gone. Tolfdir was also examining the massive room, muttering about the great significance of the room. Looking at Brelyna for a moment, who had thus far been silent, he saw her gazing mesmerized at the stone sarcophagi on the wall in front of her.

"Brelyna?" he asked. "What is it?"

The Dunmer gasped, then held out her hand in front of her, grasping at the dark, empty air as if reaching for something that was no longer there. Stammering quietly to herself, she walked over to Tolfdir and began whispering something quietly to him. While they were muttering, Crixus suddenly heard a shuffling sound that seemed to be coming from the walls.

"To arms, Crixus!" he heard Marcurio's voice reverberating from the other side of the chamber.

"You heard that?" Crixus replied.

"Yes," Marcurio nodded, a ball of Candlelight held in one hand a ball of fire in the other. "Draugr."

At the mention of draugr, tongues of fire began to burst in the right hands of all the others in the room. They formed a circle around the center of the room, their tongues of flame held outward. Meanwhile, Crixus had his bow drawn and an arrow fitted into the string.

"That won't do much against a draugr," Marcurio whispered to Crixus. "I've seen them shrug off blows that would kill a strong man."

"I've got to try something," Crixus replied.

"Use your sword, sever some limbs," Marcurio stated. "It's the best way to stop them, aside from burning them up."

But at that instant, there was a sudden crunching sound, of rock bursting and crumbling away. A growl was heard and from out of the darkness, a pair of pale blue eyes suddenly shone. Before the being could move, there was a burst of fire and then a black, man-shape burst into flame. It did not writhe or try to put the fire out, but continued to claw its way out of its stone prison, apparently oblivious to the fire. There was another fire-bolt and then a flaming arm collapsed from the shape and, slowly, it began to fall apart in burning pieces.

More growls, shuffling and crumbling noises were heard and from the stone sarcophagi surrounding them there appeared many pairs of blue eyes in the gloom. The four wizards were more than enough to keep most of them from ever getting far out of their stony coffins. The room blazed with fire from the burning corpses, lighting up the shadow-clad figures to the eyes of Servius Crixus, whose arrows truly were useless against so many with four mages on his side. These things were greyish, dried and thin, dressed in rags and wearing rusted armor. Some of them bore axes or bent swords, but these fell useless to the ground as they failed to approach them.

Suddenly Crixus gasped and fell to his knees. The chamber suddenly became freezing cold. A chill wind bit at him from all around, numbing his limbs and freezing the moisture upon his lips. He could scarce speak or force a sound out of his mouth that was not chattering and sputtering. So fierce and biting was the cold that his whole body shivered and he could scarce move himself.

"You shall not stand alone!" he heard Tolfdir cry out. The grey-clad wizened figure stood before Crixus and there was suddenly a burst of light and sudden heat. As suddenly as the cold had arrived, it had disappeared. Crixus rose to his feet and saw the old wizard conjuring a stream of fire from its hands, burning a draugr whose hand was held open towards him. In no time the draugr collapsed in a pitiful conflagration, impotent as it burned to death.

No sooner had the draugr been subdued when Tolfdir was suddenly swept up to the ground. Another draugr, one that was still partially burning and had not yet collapsed, was dragging Tolfdir back into the darkness. As Crixus rose up, he threw back his traveling cloak and picked up his trusty hand-ax: his first ever weapon, given to him by his father Valerius when he was a child, smuggled into the Imperial Legion despite it being against regulation, and kept through the Battle of the Red Dog Pass and into his prefecture in Morrowind. With a yell, he threw the ax at the draugr. There was a dull thud of metal striking metal, then a clank as the ax struck a stone wall at the far-side of the room. But that thud was enough to obscure the vision of the draugr, forcing its hands to reach up to adjust its helmet from off its eyes: just the time old Tolfdir needed to cast his flame spell again, incinerating the draugr.

The battle was over in a matter of moments. Brelyna helped Tolfdir up to his feet while Crixus dusted himself off and walked over to pick up the ax. After retrieving it, he placed it back underneath his belt and gazed at Marcurio, who was looking suspiciously at him.

"What?" he asked.

"I haven't seen you with an ax since that night in the Rift," he replied. "When you went berserk on those Stormcloaks."

"Tolfdir was in trouble," Crixus replied, not looking Marcurio in the eyes. "And it was the first thing I could reach. And I don't use my ax very much, not here in Skyrim, at least."

"Wait a moment," the old man spoke up. He walked over to Crixus and asked him for his ax. Reluctantly, Crixus handed over the ax to the old man, who walked over to one of the broken stone sarcophagi, with Master Gane standing nearby with a conjured Candlelight sphere bathing the sarcophagus in light. Gently the old man tapped the stone base of the coffin, after which he chuckled and handed the ax back to Crixus.

"My friend," Tolfdir stated. "You may have saved our expedition."

"What is it?" Master Gane asked.

"I thought I heard a hollow sound when his ax struck the rock of that stone coffin," Tolfdir returned, pointing at the shattered sarcophagus. "There is an opening behind that one. Perhaps another secret passage?"

"Very clever," Marcurio stated. He turned to Crixus. "I've seen some of these in the ruins I've been in. The Nords sometimes placed secret passages behind a stone sarcophagus."

"Yes," Tolfdir nodded. "And whatever lies beyond that stone coffin might very well be one of the greatest mysteries of the Merethic Era." He turned to Crixus and smiled. "Well done. We'll be able to get some men down here to open the hole, but for now, you lot can return to the College and rest. Today has been fruitful indeed."

* * *

**(AN: Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. As you can see, it's a good size. And I've been working lately and my brother suddenly got inspired to write a prequel to this story which is basically rehashing everything from _Morrowind_ just set before the events of _Skyrim_. So i had no access to the computer, but now i got to flesh this chapter out.)**

**(And before someone says anything, let me just say that no, Brelyna is not the "token nice Dunmer" for this story either. If you've been paying attention to the other sub-plots that have cropped up, there are at least three Dunmer characters who are nice. Also yes, vikings _did_ bury some of their dead [some were burned, some were buried], and they did actually bend their swords to keep the draugr from using those swords if they were resurrected. And yes, i know that whole "hand ax" thing is total bs. I didn't like it, because i feel that it takes away from Crixus' character, especially considering how he used it in the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, which flies in the face of his anti-Nord sentiment.)  
**


	35. Catching Up and Letting Go

**(AN: As i have said before, i hate writing out dungeon-crawls in stories. Like, if it is part of the story, i'll bite the bullet and do it, but just doing one for the sake of doing one [like my brother would want], i'd rather just do a whole chapter with nothing but dialogue and character development. So that was one reason i sort of rewrote Saarthal: instead of just being another dungeon crawl, i made it feel a bit more like an archaeological dig, where there are tunnels that have been caved in, diggers have to be brought in to clear away the rubble, etc.)**

**(Thank you for the reviews. No, that is not the case. My brother loathes OTPs [and yet insists on shipping Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan from _Smallville_ together, even though Clark and Lois has been DC's longest-lasting OTP since the 30s and, lately, Clark and Diana is coming into prominence: hell, i'd even take Clark and Lana, even though in _Smallville_ that was kind of whiny and bleh], and he believes that hatred does not disguise feelings of affection. And in the words of Lemmy Kilmister, no, when you talk about a medieval story, you don't want to hear about agrarian reform but Attila the Hun.)**

* * *

**Catching Up and Letting Go  
**

It was the afternoon of the day after the excavation into Saarthal had uncovered the hidden chamber in the temple ruins. While most of the students had returned to the College of Winterhold, Tolfdir was looking to hire workers to dig through the tunnel which they had found at the back of a stone sarcophagus. Meanwhile, Crixus stayed at the Frozen Hearth inn while Marcurio and Brelyna slept in the College dorm-rooms in the Hall of Attainment.

On the morrow, Crixus awoke and spent the rest of his time at the inn, drinking it up. By midday, Marcurio and Brelyna, as well as several other students from the College, had found their way to the inn and these two joined Crixus.

"Is there anything to do in this god forsaken town?" Crixus groaned as they joined his table.

"Not unless you're with the College," Marcurio added. "This place really is boring."

"Thank whoever you believe in that there's at least an inn," Crixus muttered. "Or else this town would have long since become a ghost town, college or no college." He called over Haran, the serving woman, and ordered food for his companions.

"So," he asked, as they sat down on the other side of the table. "What brings you over here? Lessons done for the day?"

"Yes," Marcurio nodded. "We learned a few new warding spells."

"I can't wait to try them out," Brelyna added with a grin.

"Just don't try them out on anyone," Marcurio chuckled, then leaned in to Crixus. "Last time she tried that, I was green for a whole afternoon."

Brelyna shoved Marcurio. "You said you'd never talk about that to anyone!"

"I'm not just anyone," Crixus smirked. "Besides, what's the problem? Everyone makes mistakes some time or another."

"Not here, and not me," Brelyna sighed.

"Why not?" Crixus asked.

"Well, you know what it's like here," Marcurio stated. "The locals don't exactly trust the Mage's College due to what happened."

Crixus scoffed. "Don't they know it was just the Red Mountain?"

"They have another story," Marcurio stated. "They believe that the College was responsible for the Great Collapse which destroyed most of the city of Winterhold."

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Nords. Afraid of anything not blond-haired, blue-eyed and muscle-bound." Brelyna giggled and Marcurio turned back to her, shaking his head. "What is it?"

"We were talking this morning," Marcurio stated. "In between classes, and Brelyna came up with this...theory about why you hate Nords. But you're not going to like it."

"No, go ahead," Crixus grinned. "Tell me what I'm thinking."

"I think you actually like the Nords," Brelyna explained. "You see in them the potential to be something greater and you push them because you care."

At this Crixus threw back his head in raucous laughter. So great was the laughter that Marcurio sheepishly looked around them, hoping that nobody was looking at them. After finally overcoming his powerful fit of laughter, Crixus gasped.

"You don't know me very well, do you?" he began. "There is absolutely no potential, not in the Nords and not in Skyrim. They're ignorant, war-mongering barbarians, obstinately refusing to change, and this land is a frozen waste, useless for anything substantial."

"Come on, surely you don't mean that," Brelyna retorted.

"I don't, eh?" Crixus asked. "If the daedric princes of Oblivion caused the sea to swallow up Skyrim from Markarth to Windhelm, Solitude to Falkreath and every g**-**** town, Nord and pile of ice in between, Tamriel would be far better off." He leaned back and groaned. "The sooner that scum-bag Ulfric Kingslayer is brought to justice, the sooner I can leave this frozen wasteland for all time."

"Where will you go?" asked Brelyna.

"Back to Mournhold," Crixus stated. "I have a prefecture of my own there, a modest estate, and all the wine and women an old man could ask for."

Brelyna chuckled. "You're not that old."

"Forty five," he returned.

"Ancestors!" Brelyna exclaimed. "You look so young! I wouldn't have put you at any older than thirty or at the most thirty-five."

"I am well-preserved, so I've been told," Crixus added.

"How did it happen?" Brelyna asked.

"Aren't you the one who doesn't like a lot of questions being asked?" Crixus asked. "Can't you afford me that luxury?"

"But you're from the mainland, aren't you?" Brelyna asked. "I've never been there myself. My family and I lived on the Telvanni islands; we never heard much from the mainland or even Vvardenfell. Has it become habitable again?"

"No," Crixus grimly replied, his face downcast. "There's nothing there but devils and ash."

"A pity," Brelyna commented. "Would have liked to see if anything still remains. But tell me about Mournhold."

"It hasn't changed much since the days of the Nerevarine," Crixus began. "Except there is no temple to the Old Tribunal. With the decline of House Hlaalu, there are three governing entities in Mournhold these days: the Argonian government, what's left of the Temple House, once known as House Indoril, and the last Imperial prefecture in Morrowind. I was assigned to the last one."

"And what of the women?" Brelyna asked. "Or men? Or boys? Or girls? Or androgyns?"

"What?" Crixus asked.

"Well, it is Morrowind, right?" Brelyna asked. "We're more...liberated than the people here in Skyrim. Over here, it's so boring: everyone's white, and it's always just men and women, men and women, men and women. And they have so much hair, it's disgusting! The only bald people I've seen are old men: why aren't there any bald women? Or bald children? Or women wearing mohawks for that matter? And they have so few piercings!"

Marcurio chuckled. "Careful now, you're starting to sound like Crixus."

"Why?" Brelyna asked. "I don't hate Skyrim, I just find it...quaint, a little bland and...boring. You know, like...uh..." She looked down at her chest, hidden beneath her robes.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"Uh, what do you call it?" Brelyna asked, muttering something in Dunmeri. "You humans have it here quite a bit, but back home, only women produce it." She chuckled uneasily. "Kind of childish, really, that I've seen grown men drink it."

"What?" Crixus asked.

"I think she means milk," Marcurio stated.

"Oh, right," Crixus nodded. None of the creatures he had encountered back in Mournhold were warm-blooded. While they paused in awkward silence for a while, the serving woman Haran brought their food and drink to the table.

"Are you sure there isn't milk back east?" Marcurio asked.

"Everything lays eggs," Brelyna stated. "Guar, kwama, netches, dreughs. Even the more fabled creatures that haven't been seen since the Red Year, like nix hounds, alits, kagouti, shalk, silt striders or even the legendary cliff racers. Only Dunmer...uh..." She looked back down at her chest.

"I see," Crixus nodded.

"Well, we don't all choose to do it," Brelyna continued. "In fact, it's quite common for a Dunmer woman to abstain from child-bearing if they so desire."

"I don't see why that would be an option," Crixus stated. "Considering that Vvardenfell is lost, the mainland is in chains and your people are displaced."

"It is part of our traditions," Brelyna stated. "Boethiah is both male and female, so it is that the Dunmer are called to accept all aspects of life, being as fluid as our ancestors."

"Whatever," Crixus replied. "Just don't deny me of my personal pleasures." They picked up their cups and prepared to take a drink when Marcurio cleared his voice.

"A toast," he stated. "To friendship: hard to come by in these days of war and strife."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Marcurio," Crixus groaned. "We both know you're only in it for the money."

"And the women," Marcurio added with a wink. "Regardless, I haven't met a better soldier than you, Servius Crixus. Sure, you have your rough moments, but there is more to you than meets the eye. And for that, I thank my stars I found you that night in the Rift."

"Whatever you say," Crixus returned, rolling his eyes.

"Crixus, whatever is the matter?" Brelyna asked. "Marcurio's being nice to you and you're brushing it off like he was making a jest."

"Look, this whole 'friendship' thing is all well and good," Crixus began. "But there's one bad thing about that: people who travel with me end up dead. My friends in the 9th Legion: Gerontius, Pelagius, Marius, Helvo, Rufus and Livia. Sason, Ulliel, Uther, Jelaal, Julius, Baucus, Savard, Akar, Eridor, Marlena, Ma'Iir. All of those once stood beside me, and now they're all dead...and those are just the ones I can remember."

"Blood of my ancestors, you're fun," Brelyna muttered sarcastically.

"It isn't a joke!" Crixus rebuked. "You're better off not being all friendly with me."

"Well, I haven't died yet," Marcurio added. "So I'm willing to take the chance. To friendship."

Brelyna took up his toast and knocked her cup to his, but Crixus said nothing, glaring down into the mead in his cup. Nord mead was too sweet for his taste and took much more of it to get him as drunk as he would have preferred. But the coin was running low, as he had been on the road for a while. It had been sixteen days since he left Solitude to go to the Reach to meet Madanach and had made his short-cut to join the Dark Brotherhood. Now his funds were short and, before making his return to Riften, he would have to make due here with the least palatable spirits available.

Evidently, Brelyna seemed to find the local spirits undesirable as well.

"What is this stuff?" she coughed. "Don't they have some mazte or flin?"

"You won't get anywhere asking for flin in Skyrim," Marcurio stated. "Around here, it's called Colovian brandy."

"Surely they must have mazte here," Brelyna commented. "Or something palatable."

"Just drink your mead," Marcurio stated. "There'll be something for you later."

"So," Crixus spoke up, hoping to change the subject. "What's the situation here at the College?"

"Concerning?" Marcurio asked.

"The excavation," Crixus began. "Your classes, if the College has officially joined the War..." He then turned to Brelyna. "What you told Tolfdir in the chamber under Saarthal."

"I...what?" Brelyna asked, feigning ignorance.

"You don't have to hide it from us," Crixus stated. "Just before the draugr attacked, you were looking very...vacant. And then you suddenly went and told Tolfdir something in a hushed tone, something you seemed to want to keep hidden from us."

"If I kept anything secret," she replied. "It was for a good reason."

"There's no need for secrets between us," Marcurio stated. "You know me, Brelyna. You can trust me. And Crixus, well, he's so distrusting, I doubt anyone else would put up with him as much as we do. Who else could he confide our secrets to?"

"Huh, you'd be surprised," Crixus muttered beneath his breath.

Brelyna sighed. "Look, it wasn't anything, okay?"

"Then why keep it a secret?" Crixus asked.

"It's not something widely talked about," Brelyna groaned. "Most people would laugh about what I have to say. They'd say I was on skooma or just imagining things. Lack of clean, free air down in those ruins, disorientation, that sort of thing. But I swear, everything I saw actually happened."

"Well, what was it?" Marcurio asked.

Brelyna sighed, rubbing her fingers up and down the prominent ridges on her temples. She closed her eyes, rubbed one hand across her eyes, then looked at Crixus first, then Marcurio, and thus replied.

"Have you ever heard of the Psijic Order?" she asked. Crixus shook his head.

"I have," Marcurio nodded.

"While we were down there," Brelyna began. "In the chamber that opened up after I touched the amulet, something happened. Just before the draugr attacked, everything around me seemed to slow down to a crawl. An Altmer all in white approached me and spoke to me alone. I have no idea where he came from, since I didn't see him walk in with us."

"What did he say?" Marcurio asked.

"He was very rude," Brelyna continued. "What do you expect? Most Altmer are rude to non-Altmer. But in between his rude remarks about my being 'lesser' and 'ignorant', he gave me a warning. He said that I had set in motion a chain of events that couldn't be stopped. He said that, because I was ignorant of my 'short-sighted' and 'foolish' actions, judgment would be postponed to give consideration to my coming actions and how I deal with the dangers to come."

"What does this have to do with this Psijic Order?" Crixus asked.

"He said that he belonged to the Psijic Order," Brelyna continued. "And that they believed I had the ability to prevent a great and terrible disaster from occurring. That was why they chose to speak to me."

"Hmm," Crixus mused. "So what is this Psijic Order?"

"The College of Whispers gathered much regarding other known orders of sorcerers in Tamriel," Marcurio began. "They had the greatest knowledge of the Psijic Order: a single chapter in a book entitled _Legendary Orders of Magicka_."

"College of Whispers," Crixus mused. "I've heard you talk about this before."

"That's where I learned my trade," Marcurio continued. "The College of Whispers operated under the Hall of Learning in the Imperial University, that was where I was inducted."

"Was?" Brelyna asked.

"I left the College of Whispers because, well, it wasn't fun enough for me," he replied. "They were, shall we say, librarians of magicka, hoarding powerful artifacts for research and study. They never used their hoarded powers to help anyone."

"And the Synod?" Brelyna asked.

"They operated in Cyrodiil similar to how the Thalmor operate on the Summerset Isles," Marcurio continued. "They hoard magical artifacts as well, but for the purpose of subtle application of magic. In short, they used their wizardry behind the scenes, never doing any real good. I've always felt that magic should be used instead of hoarded."

"For a price, of course," Crixus noted.

"Hey, there aren't many wizards like me wandering Tamriel these days," Marcurio stated. "Not since the Mages Guild shut down two hundred years ago."

"So why would the Psijic Order confront me?" Brelyna asked.

"I don't know," Marcurio replied. "There's very little concerning them in the codex the College of Whispers has on them. And, with the growing tensions in Skyrim, crossing the border to Cyrodiil would be difficult. And then, of course, since the College is supposed to be a secret, nobody would be willing to let us just walk up and take the book."

"I have some friends who might be interested in a heist," Crixus stated.

"You'd still have to find a way to cross the border," Marcurio added.

"I'm in the Legion," Crixus returned. "They'll let me through. Besides, a change of scenery would be most welcome. I've been away from Cyrodiil too damn long and I'm fucking sick and tired of Skyrim!"

"I don't know if they'll just let us go," Brelyna stated. "I don't know how you humans teach, but if it's anything like how I was taught back home, there isn't room for much of anything."

"What do you mean?" Marcurio asked.

"Back in Morrowind," Brelyna began. "There is no public form of education, magical or otherwise. You are educated by a member of the royal house to which you belong: Telvanni, Indoril, Hlaalu, Redoran. If you're a blood-member of the house, rather than just distantly related or the child of a retainer, you're tutored privately and the lessons don't end until your tutor feels you're adequately trained."

"My family had enough money for tutoring for me," Crixus added. "My uncle on my mother's side saw to it that I didn't become an ignorant, illiterate wastrel, like so many brats here in Skyrim."

"Most people don't have time for education here in Skyrim," Marcurio stated.

"I know," Crixus rolled his eyes. "Because the land is so poor, they can't hope to sustain life as comfortably as in Cyrodiil, or even in Mournhold. If the gods do exist, they gave Morrowind and Cyrodiil the best of their creative powers and all the shite left over went into Skyrim, a land fit for vulgar herds of peasants and ignorant sheep."

"Were they ever in doubt?" Brelyna asked.

"You're too young to have witnessed the horrors of the Great War," Crixus replied.

"Spare us, please," groaned Marcurio.

"Fine," Crixus replied, rolling his eyes. "So, what happens now? The Arch-Mage still excavating that hole we found in Saarthal?"

"Yes," Brelyna nodded. "It will take some time for him to find workers and if the weather permits. I'll send you a message as soon as we're allowed back inside."

"Right," Crixus nodded in reply. "So, is there anything at all to do in this god-forsaken town?"

"Might as well ask Dagur, the innkeeper," Marcurio suggested, gesturing towards the bar.

Crixus nodded, then rose from his seat and made his way to the bar, where a middle-aged Nord with thinning blond hair stood behind the bar.

"Well met, Imperial," he greeted. "Enjoying the hospitality of the inn?"

"Quite," Crixus returned. "Listen, do you happen to have any work for me to do? Drake's are hard to come by when you're on the road so much like I am."

"Well..." Dagur said slowly and in an uncomfortable tone. "Nothing more than the usual."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Crixus.

"Listen, we're all friends here, right?" asked Dagur. "I was wondering if, well, maybe, if I could ask a favor of you."

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"One of the few regular patrons of the inn," Dagur began, gesturing to a red-haired Nord at the back of the inn. "Name of Ranmir. Hasn't been paying for his drinks, just comes in and starts demanding beer. I'd turn him out, except..."

"Except what?"

"Well, he lost his love," Dagur stated. "A pretty young Breton named Isabelle Rolaine. Few months back, she up and left him and never came back. I asked Ranmir about it, and he's convinced she ran off with another man. Poor sod just fell into that depressed stupor, all the life's drained out of him, it seems."

"So what do you want me to do?" Crixus asked. "Maybe she did find someone else and she's better off for it."

"Now I can't believe that," Dagur shook his head. "I've seen them together before, Ranmir and Isabelle. Thick as thieves, nigh inseparable. When she was around, he was happy and outgoing: everything you'd expect from a man in love. Now..." He gestured back to the table. Crixus noted that the man seemed very much like himself: grim, sullen and more focused on getting the mead out of his cup and into his mouth than on anything else.

"I don't know," Dagur replied. "Maybe if you found some kind of news about her whereabouts, that might snap him out of it."

Crixus sighed. He had too much on his plate to be bothered by some stupid Nord who didn't have the wisdom to know that pining after one woman was a fool's errand: Tamriel was full of women doubtlessly more beautiful than his little Breton squeeze. Let the idiot Nord suffer for his foolishness, he thought.

Or perhaps he saw the depths of his own suffering in this Nord and, instead of empathy, his heart was filled with disgust and revulsion?

"Not this time," Crixus replied.

"Oh," Dagur sighed. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me, and Ranmir. But, uh, you can check the message board right over there." He pointed to his right, to a large wooden board standing by the doorway which led out into the streets of Winterhold. "People who need help usually leave messages there."

Crixus nodded, then made his way to the board in question. It was rather empty, which he guessed was mostly because of how small the town of Winterhold was now from its ancient size. There were three notices upon the board; the top one was from Ulfric Stormcloak. It read:

_All true sons and daughters of Skyrim are to report to Windhelm, to join the Stormcloak rebellion against the oppression of the Empire._

Crixus rolled his eyes, reached up onto the proclamation and tore it down from the board. It would do much better feeding the hearth than wasting space on a message board of news. Looking around, there was a newer post with the symbol of an eye within a star of five points.

_Workers needed for dig-site around old ruins in the west. Payment based on amount of time dedicated to work and to be given upon completion._

_-S. Aren, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold_

The last note was older, but also bore the sigil of the College of Winterhold. This one, however, was not a cry for help, but more of a bounty notice.

_By order of the Arch-Mage and Jarl Korir, a bounty has been placed upon the head of one Else Ice-Heart, former student of the College of Winterhold, now known to be in the eastern Pale, attacking travelers on the road to the Shrine of Azura. Slew five townsfolk, including her family, and two mages on the Nineteenth of Sun's Dusk, 4E 200. Reward of five hundred septims, good whether alive or dead._

Crixus looked at the reward: five hundred drakes could go far, especially if he was careful. Of course, Crixus knew how to handle money. He could use that five hundred to buy new gear or furnish himself along the rest of his journey. He nodded, then took down the notice and brought it over to Marcurio and Brelyna, where he showed it to them.

"I remember her," Brelyna spoke up. "She was a rather skilled sorceress, for a Nord, that is. Very keen on Destruction magic, but she was also...well, unstable."

"Unstable?" Crixus asked.

"She always clashed with the instructors," Brelyna stated. "As I recall, she found the lectures on restraint and the responsibility of wizards to their powers to be insulting. I was there when she killed the two mages, a former teacher and a student. She said that she couldn't help herself, that they forced her to kill them."

"That doesn't make any sense," Marcurio stated. "The mage controls the magic, not the other way around."

"There are very powerful sources of magicka," Brelyna added. "Beyond the knowledge of the teachers of the College of Winterhold, the wizards of the College of Whispers or even the greatest Telvanni sorcerers. Powers so great that those who have dared plump their secrets have vanished from off the face of Nirn."

"You're talking about the Dwemer, right?" Crixus asked. He scoffed. "They didn't all disappear. Legends say that the Nerevarine met one in the stone halls beneath Tel Fyr."

"Yes, the Dwemer are one example," Brelyna nodded. "And there are other powers just as great. The daedra are one such power, and so are the et'Ada. It is said that, in the beginning, Everything and Darkness came together, and that act created the et'Ada, the spirits as they were before Lorkhan's treachery. According to tradition, the et'Ada were so powerful, they defy all forms of labeling or description. Suffice to say that they were merely opposites."

"What," Crixus chuckled. "You think this Else is an apotheosis of Padomay?"

"Hardly," Brelyna chuckled in return. "I'm just saying that if you want to go up against her, you should be careful. She never fully learned to control her powers, or how to exercise restraint. She's more dangerous than your usual rogue wizard."

"I've faced down the eternal essence of Wulfharth the Undying," Crixus chuckled. "No unrestrained little teenager is going to frighten me."

"You did what?" Marcurio laughed.

"Before I came to Skyrim," Crixus stated. "Must have been the Ninth of Evening Star last year. Up on Mount Kand on Vvardenfell, me and my companions fought Wulfharth as the wind. It was only by the timely intervention of the Nerevarine that we were allowed to live." Both Marcurio and Brelyna laughed at this.

"Sirrah, the Nerevarine hasn't been seen in Tamriel in almost three hundred years," Brelyna laughed. "And why would he go to Akavir and wait two hundred years before coming to _your_ rescue?"

"And Wulfharth hasn't been seen since the fabled Warp in the West," Marcurio added with a snicker. "Next you'll be saying that you shared fisticuffs with Dagoth-Ur! I didn't think you were one for tall tales."

"It isn't a tall tale!" Crixus retorted. "It really happened!"

"Whatever," Brelyna replied, adopting Crixus' distinct Colovian drawl and rolling her eyes in the same cynical fashion as she had seen him do just minutes ago.

"That was pretty good," Marcurio chuckled.

"Very funny," Crixus returned. "Now, let's make our way to Birna's Oddments. I don't want to go up against this sorceress unprepared."

The rest of the day was spent browsing through Birna's Oddments. The little two-story shop had just enough for their needs, despite business being unusually slow. Usually, the slowness of business was because of the distance of Winterhold from every other city; and with nothing else in Winterhold save for the College, Birna's Oddments as a habit had little business. But with the Wayward Pass still closed and the Anthor route held hostage by this rogue sorceress, the only business Winterhold saw was from Windhelm, which avoided Winterhold due to the reputation of the College.

Fortunately, there were no short supplies of warm clothing. While Crixus had indeed gotten some himself, the others were dressed only in the warm robes of the College students or, in Marcurio's case, his usual wizard robes: neither of which would prove to be very useful in the extreme cold of the western reaches of the hold. Aside from this, a few potions to resist the cold and enough water for the two spell-casters to remain hydrated. Crixus shook his head, then made sure to snag a potion said to induce paralysis. Unfortunately, however, a storm hit the town as they were leaving Birna's Oddments, forcing them to return to the Frozen Hearth to bide their time until the storm abated in the morning.

* * *

It was early on the morning of the third day of Second Seed when the three of them departed Winterhold. They all knew the short foot-path through the mountains by which they had arrived in Winterhold from Saarthal, which they would now use to reach Mount Anthor. They went on for about half an hour until they passed through the mountains and came to a place where there was a large shelf of rock jutting out from the main girth of the mountains to their left. Pausing here, Marcurio saw something sheltered beneath said shelf. The mage went there and found a small stone cairn piled up against the side of the cliff, partially covered in snow. He brushed away some of the snow and found one stone standing a little above the others. There were no words upon it, only a crudely drawn circle with two triangles pointing out from the top.

"What's that?" Brelyna asked.

"You didn't see it before?" Marcurio returned.

"Must have been buried beneath the snow," she added. "Never really crossed my mind to go looking at it. But what _is_ it?"

"A grave with no name," Marcurio spoke grimly. "One for a young friend, taken too soon in the cold dark."

Crixus said nothing, but averted his eyes from the unmarked grave, looking instead south-west, towards the edge of the shelf.

"How much farther?" Crixus asked.

"Another thirty yards and then we turn south," Marcurio stated. "After that, it shouldn't be too hard finding our way to the Anthor pass. But be careful, though: there's rumors of a sinkhole in these parts."

They went on, going first westward to the end of the shelf, before turning south. The land began to slope upwards, leading towards the tall heights of Mount Anthor. To their left, a great stone figure seemed to rise above the mountains, holding a sun disk in one hand and a crescent moon in the other. Here again they halted while Brelyna averted her gaze.

"Azura," Marcurio stated. "The Lady of Dawn, daedric prince and patron of the Dunmer. We saw that statue before, but, damn, it's just as impressive from here."

Crixus said nothing, instead looking up at the giant statue in a moment of awe. He thought back to the Nerevarine, a hero even more ancient than the fabled Hero of Kvatch. It was said that, after saving Vvardenfell from Dagoth-Ur, Azura appeared to him and gave him 'this gift from the hand of God'. In his heart, he wished that it were still an age of heroes, when gods walked among mortals and helped them liberally. He would have no need to doubt anymore if that were to happen.

Continuing on up the hill-side, they found themselves at what appeared to be a shrine set a little off to the left of the snow-covered path. Around them they saw several bodies frozen into the snow, many of them with looks of horror upon their frozen and half-rotten faces. Many of them bore the warm clothes of travelers, some of them still bearing swords or axes in their frosted hands. In the center of the shrine, they saw a body upon what appeared to be a stone altar. Crixus walked over to the frozen body and searched the many pockets and pouches upon this one.

"Heh," Crixus mused above the gently swelling wind. "This fellow appears to have been a courier."

"How do you know?" Brelyna asked.

"Well, he's dressed for winter, or summer snows, or whatever the fuck it's called around here," Crixus returned. "And he's armed, and his purse doesn't contain very large sums. Back in Mournhold, the price to use the local courier was usually ten uuals."

"Uuals?" Marcurio asked.

"Coins made from precious ebony," Brelyna replied. "After the Red Year, most of the ebony mines on Vvardenfell were lost, and there has been no word of any ebony from Solstheim. It's worth more than your Imperial coin."

"This one seems to only have about twenty drakes," Crixus stated. "Either postage rates are different over here, or he isn't carrying many letters."

"Why does he still have gold on him?" Marcurio asked.

"This sorceress must be as crazy as Brelyna said," Crixus added. "Kill travelers without taking their drakes. We must be close."

"How do you know it was Else?" Brelyna asked.

"I'm guessing," Crixus returned.

"Well, what about our friend here?" Marcurio asked, gesturing to the corpse. "Does he have anything else on him?"

"Let me check," Crixus replied, opening a large bag hanging from the frozen corpse.

"Is that really a good idea?" Brelyna asked, gazing at the courier's face, affixed in horror.

"You seemed rather amused," Crixus stated. "At rifling through Saarthal, a place that Nord idiot Onmund was practically pissing himself over in fear." He shook his head. "Listen, it's foolishness to leave valuables unclaimed on a conquered foe's body. You never know what you might find."

"On a conquered foe, maybe," Brelyna replied. "But we didn't kill him."

"Your point being?"

"I mean, this seems like it's crossing some sort of boundary, doesn't it?" Brelyna asked. "We're mages and mercenaries, not looters and bandits."

"Have it your way," Crixus dismissed. "I will take what I want from this man. He would have wanted us to not let his valuables go to waste, don't you think?"

"What about the poor man's soul?" Brelyna asked.

"I don't believe in souls," Crixus returned. "He's dead, he's not looking down at us from Aetherius or sovereign-guard or what-the-fuck-ever. He doesn't give two shites if we take his gear, so I say why not?"

"Then what powers soul gems?" Brelyna asked, placing her hands on her hips cheekily: she found a weak point in his argument and she was willing to exploit it and damned if she didn't feel a little bit vindicated and wanted to show it as well.

"Magic," Crixus replied.

"No, that's what is created from the powered soul gem," Brelyna added.

"It's not a soul, it's a magical essence," Crixus returned. "That's what creates the enchantment, not some ghost story fodder. Now keep it down, we might be close. Spread out and look for any indication of where she might be: I'm going to keep looking."

Brelyna and Marcurio dispersed while Crixus pulled out of the satchel of the frozen courier what he had been hiding: a small bundle of letters. But more so, one letter in particular with a wax seal bearing the emblem of the wolf: it was the seal of Solitude. Who could possibly be sending a letter into a rebel hold from Solitude? He decided that the letter needed to be kept to be brought back to Solitude for examination.

"Over here!" Marcurio called out.

Down the short stairs of the altar went Crixus, following the sound of Marcurio's voice around what appeared to be a large head of rock jutting out of the girth of the mountain-side. Marcurio and Brelyna now stood before a cave jutting into the side of the mountain. It was dark and a cool air blew from it.

"Do you think this is her hiding place?" Crixus asked.

"It's worth a look," Marcurio returned.

"Make sure to have some of the frost resistance potions," Brelyna stated. "If it is Else, I don't want to go up against her without any protection."

Marcurio removed a small blue bottle from the leather-bound potion case on his belt and gave it to Brelyna and Crixus first to drink. The potion smelled of fish, but was sweet on the tongue: Crixus was reminded of the sickly sweetness of skooma as he swallowed the stuff down. Once down the throat, it filled the body with the same warm, blanketed sensation of alcohol, only without the debilitating side effects. After they all had a mouthful, Marcurio stowed the bottle back in the case, summoned an orb of Candlelight and began walking into the cave. Brelyna summoned a tongue of fire in her hand while Crixus reached for his bow.

"Really?" Marcurio breathed. "A bow in here? Wouldn't it be too close for shooting?"

"Maybe," Crixus returned. "But I'm the best archer in Tamriel. If you two can keep her busy, I'll take her out from behind."

"You're going to kill her?" Brelyna asked. "The poster said 'alive' as well as 'dead.'"

"Not a killing shot," Crixus stated. "That's why I bothered with the paralysis potion. A shot to the leg or knee and she'll be down and we can drag her back to Winterhold for the reward."

They passed on into the cave, the air growing colder and colder. Their breath came out in misty gasps, just like outside. Crixus reached out one hand, touching the wall of the cave to his left: it was slick and icy cold. The floor also was covered in snow which crunched beneath their feet. On they went, until they came upon another figure frozen in ice.

"What are you doing here?" a young woman's voice asked, her voice frantic. Her gasps of pants echoed through the cavern just beyond them, letting them know that the tunnel widened out just beyond.

"Else?" Brelyna asked. "Is that you? We come in peace!"

"Liar!" the voice gasped, sounding even more frantic. "That's what the others said, but they just wanted to chain me down, bring me back and lock me away. No more! I'm...I'm free!"

"And what have you done with that freedom, eh?" Crixus asked. "You kill people for fun."

"They were all bad people!" the voice replied, nervousness rising to a palpable level. "They tried to hurt me!"

"Else, this is why you were at the College to begin with," Brelyna continued. "To teach you how to control your powers. Discipline is not bad."

"You lie!" Else retorted. "You're all the same, just like the rest of those ignorant _men_ out there! See? You've brought some to my little fortress!"

Suddenly a blast of ice came darting out of the snow: Crixus ducked and the icicle crashed against the wall of the cave behind him. Another one was suddenly thrown directly at Marcurio, who managed to summon a ward at the last minute to shatter the icy blast.

"Else, please stop!" Brelyna begged. "You say those frozen people were bad? Look at what you're doing to my friends!"

"There's no right or wrong," Else gasped. Now her voice changed; there was still a dissonant unrest, but now there was also a hint of enjoyment in her voice. "Not for me, at least. Not anymore!"

"But for everyone else?" asked Brelyna. "Else, please, everyone has limits. Even you."

"But who can impose them on _me_?" Else asked, her voice rising in anger.

A bolt of ice came flying towards Brelyna, who also summoned a ward to deflect the blast. Crixus, with bow already on the string, set one off between the elf and the Imperial. There was a shattering sound like ice, then another icy spike came flying towards Crixus.

"Else, I have to warn you," Brelyna said, her right hand still holding the flame spell aloft. "If you keep attacking us, we'll have no choice but to defend ourselves."

Instead of an answer, there was a sudden gust of cold wind, blowing upon the three adventurers from the depths of the cave. The chill did not assuage them, for the warm potion still coursed through their veins: the biggest threat with this ice storm were the tiny shards of ice. From Brelyna's hands, the fiery tongue she had conjured was flickering madly, kept from going out altogether by her own willpower and discipline over her magical art.

"Crixus!" Marcurio shouted. "Do something!"

Turning swiftly to his companion, Crixus saw Marcurio struggling to conjure a flame of his own against the billowing cold winds. He drew out an arrow, fitted it into the bow and sent it off. There was a chink as the arrow-head struck ice, but then the storm seemed to grow in intensity.

Crixus dodged as now a wave of cold wind descended upon them. Both Marcurio and Brelyna intensified their flame spells, keeping the cold at bay. On the other hand, while Crixus was not feeling the cold, his legs suddenly became numb and he fell forward. Even with a potion of resistance of frost, the sheer volume of powerful icy destruction magicka broke through the potion's effects, numbing Crixus' legs as they began to freeze.

"Quick!" Crixus shouted. "Stop the channeling!"

From the shrouded figures of the elf and the Imperial, bright bursts of flame flew up into the shivering air, then dissipated like dispelled ghosts in a morning's breeze.

"The storm is too strong!" Marcurio replied.

"Work together!" Crixus added. "Like the Legion!"

Though neither Marcurio nor Brelyna had served in the Legion, they could see the value of working together, and so they did. Brelyna summoned a ward while, protected under the ward spell, Marcurio prepared a fire-ball. They waited, then Marcurio threw his fire-ball. The storm seemed to subside for a moment more, then there was heard a haughty, mocking laugh echoing in the cavern. The wind picked up again, but this time the shards of ice were larger: large enough to skewer any of them should they be caught by one.

"Keep the ward up!" Marcurio cried out. "Crixus, fire an arrow towards where those ice-shards are coming from!"

"Great idea!" Crixus shouted after rolling into the snow to avoid a large shard of ice. "How do I do that?"

"Just get behind Brelyna!" Marcurio returned. "We'll drop the ward but only for a moment. That's your chance!"

"Even I can't hit a target in the dark in only a moment!" Crixus added as he crawled behind Brelyna. A large chuck of ice struck the ward, shattering into a dozen tiny ice crystals which shattered above Crixus' head. Even the fire spells conjured by Marcurio illuminated only a vague outline of the figure beyond, if they even managed to break through the chilly gusts to strike their target.

"Just do it!" Marcurio returned.

Crixus groaned as he pulled out two arrows and fitted them into the string of his bow. He bent back the bow, keeping the arrowheads pointed away from the two. He had only one chance, and he could not afford to be aiming his bow at his comrades.

"Ready?" Marcurio asked after lobbing two fire-balls into the darkness.

"Yes!" Crixus nodded.

"On three," Marcurio murmured close to Brelyna's ear. Close for they could not risk letting Else know of their plan and circumvent them at the last minute. "One..."

Ice continued to fall in great numbers, as thick as hail, crashing against the stones around them or plopping into the snow.

"Two..."

The ward continued to hold, though Brelyna's resolve was starting to shatter. Despite her inexperience, there was something else that was starting to gnaw at her throughout the battle, something that was sapping her strength: the reality that her friend might not be coming out of this altercation alive.

"Three!" Marcurio shouted.

In one moment, the ward was down and a ball of mage-light went soaring into the darkness. Gritting his teeth, Crixus turned around, rising up to his full height, and sent both arrows flying over Brelyna and Marcurio's heads, straight towards the figure that appeared briefly in the light. There was a burst of fire, then suddenly a mournful cry. The storm ceased raging and, in the light of the mage-light ball that Marcurio had summoned at the last minute, they saw a figure cling onto something that looked like an ice statue for a moment before falling to the ground.

"Is it done?" Brelyna asked, her voice heavy with emotion.

Crixus nodded. "It's done."

Slowly the three of them made their way into the end of the cavern. At the rear they saw a doorway that, when Crixus examined it, was locked and did not open. Looking down, he saw a young woman dressed in blue mage's robes with a deep violet cloak. Her face had been burned by one of Marcurio's fire-balls and there was an arrow in her chest. Brelyna clung to the rear of the group, making no sound. But if any of them would have turned around, they would have seen in her red eyes a horrific kind of sadness that anyone could have known: the sadness of a lost loved one.

"She's dead alright," Crixus nodded. There was no movement from the body.

"How could this have happened?" Marcurio asked.

"She's a Nord," Crixus returned.

"No, usually this doesn't happen to students of the Destruction school of magic," Marcurio continued. "Usually it's necromancers in the Conjuration school who lose it like this. But how could..."

"Like I said, she was a Nord," Crixus stated. "She was neither wise nor powerful enough to control her magicka."

"How dare you!" Brelyna retorted. "She was my friend!"

"Really?" scoffed Crixus. But in that moment, Brelyna leaped upon Crixus as if to tear him apart: only Marcurio's timely intervention, holding Brelyna's arms back, kept the argument from going violent.

"How can you say things so callously?" Brelyna shouted.

"She's a Nord," Crixus stated. "She must have hated your kind. They all hate what's not like them."

"She was different!" Brelyna retorted.

"Bah!" Crixus snorted. "All Nords are ignorant, bigoted, magic-fearing scum."

"You bastard!"

"Crixus, honestly!" Marcurio shouted. "Can you not restrain yourself for a moment?"

"I don't restrain myself from speaking the truth to anyone," Crixus sneered. "Not to her, not to you, and not to anyone."

"Haven't you ever lost anyone?" Marcurio asked. "Someone close to you? Shouldn't you know not to insult those who have lost..."

"I lost my mother before I even knew her!" Crixus retorted, anger rising up in his throat. "Everyone I knew in the 9th Legion died during the War or the Battle of the Red Dog Pass. I didn't even get to bury my own father, you Colovian fuck! So don't you talk to me as if I know nothing about loss. I know everything about it, but I'm not going to hide the truth from her: these Nords are scum, all of them! If only Mehrunes Dagon or the fucking Divines would just wipe this god-forsaken ice-hell off the face of Tamriel, everything would be better."

"Then leave us alone," Marcurio returned. "Go outside the cave and wallow in your own sorrow, since that seems to be what you do best, and let us grieve our loss and say our goodbyes in peace."

Crixus rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Whatever," he murmured as he walked towards the mouth of the cave. Behind him he heard a gust of fire erupt, but said nothing and did not turn around. Once he was outside, the cold of the Winter-Pale struck him and, his frustration still leaking from his last outburst, Crixus kicked the snow.

"Fuck Skyrim!" he grumbled. "I wish I were back in Morrowind."

While they lingered in the cave, Crixus removed the frozen letter marked with the wolf of Solitude from his belt. He walked over to the altar and gingerly tried to pry it open. The letter broke along the folded seams, but he was able to place it back together and read this from it.

_My dear thane,_

_Though it is within my power to demand your immediate presence, I humbly ask that you return to Solitude as soon as possible. There is something which I must do, something which has been a long time coming, something to which you must be privy._

_With all my love and affection,_

_Elisif Oyvidsdottir_

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- For days and days i was unable to get any work done on this story because, well, of my brother's prequel story which is, in essence, _Morrowind_ 2.0 Honestly, everything in that story is just a rehashing of everything that happened in _Morrowind: _the only different thing is him retconning the eruption of the Red Mountain to where it has no real lasting or meaningful damage or affect on the economy, ecology or society of Morrowind. And what's worse, now he wants me to stop the presses on this story and publish his because he refuses to make a _FF_ account of his own: what do you think?)  
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**(Leaving Morrowind [-sigh of relief-] getting this chapter out was a chore, mostly because, as far as i write, everything that happens in my story has a purpose and a reason. Yes, it is an adventure and i try to describe the vast and beautiful landscapes as if we are seeing them, but i simply cannot have something just for the sake of taking up the pages. So yes, i threw something in at the end to make up for having something that only helps to bloat the story even more.)  
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	36. By Any Other Name

**(AN: One of the biggest problems with this story is that, since it is a prequel, any sense of suspense or danger is deflated by the fact that anyone who has read _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ or _The Dragon and the Bear_ already knows that Crixus survives. The only payoff I can think of is that we get to see his adventures behind the scenes [though it won't be a "he helped Eirik defeat Alduin from behind the scenes" thing], as well as profound insight into his back-story and why he behaved the way he did in the other two stories.)**

* * *

**By Any Other Name**

As the month of Second Seed came to Skyrim, the wheels of fate continued grinding along their charted course. The uneasy stand-off between the Empire and the Stormcloak rebellion carried on, with the city of Whiterun sitting directly in the center of the stalemate. Even in summer, which would arrive in the coming month, the snows in the Pale and Winterhold rarely subsided enough to make those holds viable for attack. To the south, an arm of mountains flung out from the south slope of the Throat of the World to the Jerall Mountains divided the Rift from Falkreath, rebels from loyalists.

Meanwhile, word began to travel across Skyrim as it always had in ages past. Tongues from the Silver-Blood inn in Markarth to the Candlehearth Hall and the New Gnisis Corner-club in Windhelm spoke of the return of the Thieves Guild. People in Riften were beginning to lock their doors again, after a string of robberies had made them an active threat in the south-east. The closing of the Honningbrew meadery in Whiterun had the markings of the Thieves Guild all over it, since shortly after its closing, the meadery became an adjunct of the Black-Briar family meadery. Many feared the influence of the Thieves Guild was starting to spread and it would only be a matter of time before someone's hand was found in the pocket of a poor man in Markarth or Windhelm.

And there were other rumors, darker rumors of a shadow moving through the night. A miner in Dawnstar had inexplicably died, followed by a woodsman west of Windhelm nine days later. Some blamed the Empire, though this was less credible after the death outside of Anga's Mill in Eastmarch. Others blamed the Dunmer, whom many believed were becoming restless and irritable. But there were some who feared an even greater menace, one which had, for the most part, been silent in Tamriel for many thousands of years. But now the silence was breaking and those who believed this murmured the name in fearful whispers across Skyrim: the Dark Brotherhood had returned.

* * *

On the ninth day of Second Seed, Servius Crixus found himself back in the Ragged Flagon in Riften. Evading the rebel patrols throughout the marshlands of Eastmarch was child's play for him: these Nords were stupid and he, after all, was an Imperial. Outsmarting them would have been easy for even the dullest Nibenay. Arriving in Riften in the afternoon, he made his way to the cemetery behind the temple of Mara and found the secret entrance Mercer Frey had told him about on his last voyage. As Mercer was busy at the moment, he went to the Flagon and found Vex and Brynjolf enjoying a drink together.

"Where's Delvin?" Crixus asked.

"He's on an assignment in Solstheim," Vex stated. "Did you really think you were the only one out there stealing in the name of the Thieves Guild while we all sat on ass around here, drinking beer and counting our coins?"

"From what I've seen of Skyrim," Crixus returned. "Yes, that's exactly what I thought."

"What, there's no Thieves Guild in Mournhold?" Brynjolf asked.

Crixus' face blanched as he looked at the red-haired Nord with keen distrust. "What did you say?"

"Calm down, friend," Brynjolf chuckled. "No reason to be all grim and severe. We have ears, that's all."

"In Mournhold?" Crixus asked.

"In Mournhold," Brynjolf nodded. "Besides, when the prefect in the last Imperial embassy in Morrowind goes missing for almost five months, people tend to talk. And also since Riften is next door to Morrowind, we hear what goes on. But come, there's no need to be upset. We won't tell the rebels who you are."

They shared a few drinks as Crixus listened to what was going on. While he had been away, the Thieves Guild was busy taking care of the people of Riften. Despite their most recent successes, there had still been quite a few missteps, failures, pickpockets discovered at the last moment.

"Sounds better than what I've been going through," Crixus stated. "You know, I'm glad I have you lot to come back to. From all the bullshite I get with the people I travel with, it's nice to come back to people who don't give a damn."

Vex chuckled. "Why are you b*tching about it to us if we don't give a damn?"

Crixus laughed. "That's what I like to hear. Some levity for once."

"I wish everything were sunshine and roses, though," Brynjolf stated. "Just last week, one of our guys was on duty in Solitude when he got picked up. Haven't heard from him since. It's quite possible he's dead."

"Who's the name?" Crixus asked. "Maybe I might run into him, seeing as how I'm in Solitude quite a bit these days."

"Etienne," Brynjolf replied. "A young Breton man."

"Who do you think picked him up?" Crixus asked.

Brynjolf chuckled. "Who wouldn't want to take a shot at the Thieves Guild? The Haafingar hold guards would take offense to anyone looting, robbing, pilfering or plundering on their watch. The Imperial Legion would likely cooperate with the local guards, so they'd be against us."

"What about the Thalmor?" Crixus asked.

Vex rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you're one of those idiots who believes the agents of the Aldmeri Dominion are hiding behind every rock, bush and barrel, do you?"

"Of course not," Crixus chuckled. "I mean, they're not _that_ powerful. Of course they're not, the Empire would have realized someone was infiltrating them on every level. Being afraid of them is bullshite."

"Especially since Maven Black-Briar is friends with Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador," Brynjolf added. "Some of our earnings go to her for protection from those who would seek to drive us out of business. Part of our agreement. She pays the Thalmor and they turn the other cheek when we're involved."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, how long is it going to take for me to speak to Mercer? I have urgent business abroad and my time is valuable."

"He'll call you in when he's ready," Vex stated. "So, did you find any more of those stones?"

"Actually I did," Crixus nodded, opening up his pouch and removing several more pink sapphires. "Oh, there's also this." He pulled out the list of candidates Asteria had stolen from Yngvar the Bard in Markarth.

"What's this?" Vex asked.

"A friend of mine needed to have her name put on this list of bard candidates to play before Jarl Igmund in Markarth," Crixus explained.

"Delvin is the one who handles the numbers jobs," Vex stated. "You'll have to wait for him to return if you want a professional forger."

Crixus nodded as Vex picked each individual pink sapphire and scrutinized them closely in the light of the candle at their table. While they were waiting, someone appeared from the tunnel leading to the Cistern and called out Crixus' name.

"The boss wants to see you," the voice of the Redguard Brynjolf had introduced as Tonilia sounded.

Crixus rose up and followed the dark-skinned woman back through the tunnel to the cistern, where running water echoed about in the large rounded stone chamber. Here Tonilia led Crixus to a desk along the edge of the room, where Mercer was sitting down, examining the golden queen bee Crixus had found at the Goldenglow Estate.

"There you are," Mercer grumbled. "It's been too long."

"Well, I do have other obligations," Crixus added. "And this is a rebel hold."

"Are you a man of excuses or a man of action?" Mercer asked. "Getting past Stormcloak scouting parties should be an easy task for one of us. Now, on to business. My sources tell me that the Black-Briars are now in charge of the Whiterun branch of what used to be Honningbrew meadery. I suppose I have you to thank for that: you didn't botch this job, so you're not completely useless. Now, did you find anything?"

Crixus removed from his weather-beaten and worn back-pack the golden decanter and two pieces of paper. One was the bill of sale of the Goldenglow Estate, and the other was the promissory note from the Honningbrew meadery. Mercer examined the parchments silently for a while.

"Hmm," he mused. "This symbol. It's the same one in both cases. It would appear our nameless adversary is trying to indirectly attack us by angering Maven Black-Briar. Very clever." He then looked up at Crixus for a moment. "Don't mistake my admiration for complacency. Whoever they are, they're well-funded and have evaded us for a long time. I'm impressed that they've made it this far..." He picked up the bill of sale, examined it again, and chuckled. "...but they're still going to pay in the end."

"Yes, sir," Crixus nodded. "And how will they do that?"

"This," Mercer stated, turning the bill around on the table and pointing to the line: '_Payment of the property has already been made in full by Gajul-Lei as an agent on behalf of the buyer.'_ "They've gotten sloppy and implicated someone we know."

"We do?" Crixus asked.

"Gajul-Lei is a false name," Mercer continued. "One used by one of our inside men in the East Empire Trading Company in Solitude. Usually in these cases, we don't use true names, since our business is thievery. Gajul-Lei is an Argonian named Gulum-Ei; slimy bastard. I bet he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate. He can probably finger our buyer."

"So what do I do?" Crixus asked.

"Get your ass to Solitude," Mercer stated. "Find Gulum-Ei, shake him down and make him talk." Crixus nodded and began to rise, but Mercer pointed one finger at him. "Oh, and by the way, don't just go blindly rushing into this like some Nord barbarian. Gulum's smart, one of our own. Getting him to crack won't be easy: talk to Brynjolf before you leave, maybe he will be able to give you some pointers."

"Yes, sir," Crixus nodded.

Rising up, Crixus made his way back to the Ragged Flagon and found Brynjolf sitting at the bar, talking the hard-nosed curmudgeon Vekel the Man. Crixus, who was not in the mood for getting very wasted, passed on the drink and instead mentioned what he and Mercer had been talking about in the cistern.

"Gulum-Ei?" Brynjolf mused. "He works down at the docks in Solitude for the East Empire Company. Last I heard, a buyer of his was in the market for Firebrand Wine. Getting that, however, is another thing altogether."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "So, what about this list? Do you think you can hold onto it for me while I'm away? I'm carrying way too much shite as it is."

"Are you kidding?" Brynjolf chuckled. "We're the Thieves Guild. We take care of our own."

"Just like that?" Crixus asked.

"Whether Delvin will charge for this little service, I can't say," Brynjolf continued. "But for now, I'll keep this on me and remember when he returns."

"Are you sure you won't forget?" Crixus asked.

"Despite what you may believe," Brynjolf added. "I'm a cut above the usual rabble around here. I'll remember it."

_I'll believe that,_ Crixus thought. _When sloads fly._

* * *

The next day, after spending the night at the Bee and Barb inn, Crixus saddled up his horse and prepared for his journey. He had only one more stop to make, and that was in Ivarstead, a town on the far western edge of the Rift. Instead of taking off immediately, he spent some time reading the map in his room. There had to be an easier way of getting from Ivarstead to Falkreath to report on the success of his kills without going around and through Whiterun. Nothing in the maps showed anything that might be helpful.

With a sigh, he reached into his jacket pocket for the letters. Perhaps now would be a good time to read them? But then again, he had not read them in so long, and anything they said would be meaningless. The Maro family would never forgive him for not returning their letters, but did he want their forgiveness?

Just then, while he was holding the letters, one fell out. Not only had they been enchanted to be waterproof, they were bound so tightly that they would not have fallen out unless pulled out. Picking up the note, he found that it was not a letter at all, but a piece of thick parchment paper with several alchemical ingredients listed upon it: deathbell flowers, imp stools, troll fat, river betty, nightshade, human flesh and Jarrin root.

Stowing the list in his pocket, then folding up the map and placing it with his gear inside his back-pack and stowing away the letters, Crixus went downstairs and asked the landlord Talen-Jei about any alchemical stores in town. The green-scaled Argonian directed Crixus to Elgrim's Elixirs on the water-level near the north part of town. After leaving the Bee and Barb, Crixus made his way to the place directed and, climbing down a wooden stairway leading to the water-level, he found the shop just fine.

Inside, it was warmly lit by several candles upon the shelves, the counter and in several alcoves upon the stone walls. There were many shelves, both in front of and behind the desk, where jars, bags, sacks, vials and barrels of many different shapes and sizes filled them to the brim. Besides that, there were also several instruments sitting upon the table which were useful for the novice alchemist: a retort, a calcinator, a mortar and pestle and an alembic. The thick smell of the many ingredients was masked by a bundle of lavender tied above the door and near the counter.

While Crixus was examining the shop, a young woman in rich clothes walked out from behind a corner and began stacking shelves. Crixus cleared his throat and she turned around. She almost looked Colovian, what with her dark hair and soft frame: not like the fat, masculine, barbaric women of Skyrim which Crixus believed were the only kind that existed. Only her pale skin and blue eyes gave her away as being a Nord.

"Hello there," she greeted.

"Uh...Elgrim?" he asked.

She smiled. "No, I'm Ingun Black-Briar. The master and his wife are having breakfast."

"Oh," Crixus nodded, passing his hand up over his face to hide his blushing in embarrassment. "So, do you work here?"

"I'm an apprentice in Elgrim's shop," she continued. "Now, can I get you anything?"

"Oh, yes," he returned, removing the shopping list from his pocket and placing it upon the counter. Ingun picked up the list and read it, her face furrowing in thought for a moment. When she was done, she looked back up at Crixus, a knowing smile on her face.

"Planning on killing someone, are we?" she asked.

"That shouldn't surprise someone like you," Crixus added.

"Right," she returned. "Well, despite my name, I am not like my family. My mother has Riften wrapped around her finger, and for what? Money. My brother Hemming holds his position as heir to the family over our heads, acting as though he were our father. And for what? Money. But what do they do with that money? They squander it all away on meaningless pursuits." She then lowered her gaze.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, pardon me," she returned. "You want the ingredients, don't you?"

"I don't mind listening," Crixus stated, though he could never afterwards understand why he said so. Usually these things bothered him to no end. "Go on."

"Well, like I was saying," Ingun continued. "All they do with our family's wealth is waste it away on foolish ventures and political schemes. But not me. I always knew I was destined for something else."

"So you became an apprentice for Elgrim?" Crixus asked.

"It's so fascinating," she continued, rifling through the shelves behind her. "Watching the effects of a well-brewed potion on someone: dizziness, blindness, the eventual collapse of the heart, death and that sort. If you think about it, we're all made up of parts, like a Dwemer animunculus. The brain, the heart, the bowels, the stomach, the sinews and tendons which control the arms and legs: they all have different functions, but they all work together to keep us alive." She turned around to Crixus, her head tilted to one side.

"And if only a single part of our bodies fail, life fails. It's ironic, really: the very world that gives us life gives us the means with which to die."

Crixus chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you say this to everyone?" he asked. "I would be surprised if your master had any business if you greeted all of your customers like that."

Ingun did not smile or laugh; she merely held Crixus' gaze with the same fascinated expression she had on her face when she spoke of the failing of the body.

"You're so much different than anyone else who comes to the shop," she mused. "I can see it in your eyes: you share the same fascination with death as I do."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, about my ingredients?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, a smile bursting onto her face. "Forgive me, I was getting a little carried away. You just seemed interested in what I had to say. There wasn't any fear or discomfort in your eyes: I like that. But yes, your list." She held it up again.

"I'm afraid to say," she continued. "That we're all out of deathbells and nightshade. My fault, actually. I'm still a novice at this, despite what Elgrim says. I've made too many careless mistakes and ran the stores dry of some of our ingredients. But, fortunately for you, the rest of what you have here we still have in stock. Let me see here..." She reached down under the counter and pulled up a barrel with a glistening rune upon the top.

"A pound of flesh," she stated. "There's a spell of keeping upon it, protects it from spoiling too quickly." Next she brought up a glass jar filled with several dried mushrooms. "Here are the imp stools..." She then turned around and brought forward two more barrels.

"Troll fat and two river betties," she stated. "Unfortunately, nobody in Skyrim carries Jarrin root."

"Why is that?" Crixus asked.

"Because it can only be found in Black Marsh," Ingun stated. "And nobody goes there. From all that I've heard about that land, it's even more dangerous than people say Skyrim is: I'll wager the marshes and jungles over there are simply teeming with so many rare and exotic flora and fauna undiscovered by the alchemists of Skyrim, Cyrodiil or Morrowind. To think of the poisons they would make!"

"Who knows?" Crixus asked. "Maybe you might be part of the first human expedition to go there?"

"Maybe I would be," she mused. "But no, that's a foolish fantasy. I'd have to become much better with my potions to even think about cataloging all of the strange and wonderful potential alchemical ingredients of Black Marsh. Oh, speaking of which..."

"Yes?" Crixus asked.

"Well," she continued. "I noticed from your garb and your well-worn pack that you're one who's been around. Perhaps if you find some of the things Elgrim needs to restock the stores, I would be most appreciative. It would go a long way with my own experiments."

"What do you need?" Crixus asked.

"You know about deathbells and nightshade," Ingun continued. "They grow in the wild and are therefore easier to find for one who is on the road often. Nightshade can be found near graves or around barrows, anywhere where blood has been spilled. Deathbells grow in the marshes of Hjaalmarch to the north-west. The other thing I need is nirnroot. It's bright green and has long, toothed leaves and can be found growing around water. The plant also emits a soft ringing sound which lets you know that you're close. Get me about twenty flowers of deathbell, twenty flowers of nightshade and twenty leaves of nirnroot for the stores. Does this seem like something you'd be interested in, perhaps?"

"Sure," Crixus nodded. "Whenever I'm out, I'll see what I can find."

"Brilliant!" she exclaimed.

* * *

So it was that Crixus did not leave Riften until mid-day. After leaving Elgrim's Elixirs, he went over to the graveyard and found only three nightshade plants with flowers upon them. While he was looking for them, he was stopped by a guard who asked him why he was snooping around graves. When Crixus explained what was going on, the guard chuckled.

"So, you mix potions?" he asked. "Never could get the hang of that. Could you brew me up a good ale?"

"I'm just picking flowers," Crixus replied, shocked that those four words actually came out of _his_ mouth.

"Them bluish flowers?" the guard asked, gesturing to the three in Crixus' hand. "There used to be tons of 'em 'round the cemetery, but then old Elgrim an' his wife Hafjorg came in and picked most of 'em. Can't see no reason why they'd need 'em: can't folk just leave the dead in peace?"

Crixus said nothing else, but stowed the flowers in his pocket, then made his way back to the stables. He had a long journey ahead of him.

From Riften, Crixus followed the north road, turning west out of town and following Lake Honrich for many miles. To his left he could see, in the middle of the lake, the isle upon which sat the Goldenglow Estate. But he carried on, since his mission was farther west. Along the northern shores of the lake the road snaked, until the western end of the lake narrowed out and branched northward. There was a stone bridge here, though, just opposite a mill, where Crixus forded and continued on his journey.

From the Heartwood Mill, which the workers told Crixus stood in the very center of the birch and aspen forests of the Rift, now glistening green in the balmy late spring afternoon, he took his journey straight, leaving the road which followed the river along its southern bank. After a while, he arrived at what appeared to be an old Nordic ruin, built into the hill out of blocks that looked too big for simple Nords with hand-tools to have possibly built. There was no way to continue going straight this way as an arm of the mountains blocked his path. Pausing here for a moment, Crixus found two more nightshade plants and picked the flowers from them before turning north-west.

To his fortune, though, the road was just a little ways off from this ruin to his north and it took little time to find it again. The road turned back north, the missing stones and overgrowth showing the age of this road or, perhaps, in his mind at least, the apathy the Nords had to their own roads. He carried on until there was a fork in the road: one branched north-east, back across the river, while the other turned south-west. According to the map, both roads would take him to Ivarstead, but he had to be quick about his choice. Already the sun had vanished behind the tallest mountain on the western horizon. The day was growing old and night would soon be upon him.

Evening was on its way while Crixus at last arrived in Ivarstead. The path he had taken led him to Ivarstead indeed, but while he was yet approaching the town from the south, he threw down his hood and covered his face with his veil. He was about to kill someone and he did not wish to be known. He made his way to the Vilemyr Inn, the only inn in the small town, and ordered himself a drink. Just one to tie himself over for the deed at hand. While he waited for his drink at the bar, he asked the barkeep, a Nord named Wilhelm, something he had been meaning to ask since Riften.

"Is there a way to reach Falkreath from the Rift?" he asked.

"Oh, that there is," Wilhelm nodded. "Though, personally, I picked you to be a pilgrim going up the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar. What with that hood and veil of yorn to keep out the cold."

"I was just up there," Crixus lied. "Now I'm returning to my home in the west. I am in haste and need to pass through to Falkreath immediately. Is there a way to reach Falkreath from..."

"I heard you the first time, stranger," Wilhelm replied. "And there just happens to be such a way. Won't find it on them maps, though. Not the official ones. The pathway through Haemar's Shame is dangerous these days, haunted by sell-swords, trolls and wolves and whatnot. Anyhow, if you have a mind to that way, travel down the south road out of town: when you hit the fork, keep going south. Eventually that path will lead up into the mountains. Stay on that path and don't get off for nothing and you should be in Helgen in a day, if no trouble befalls you."

At that moment, the doors of the inn were thrust open and a young woman came running into the inn, a panicked look on her face.

"Come quick!" she exclaimed. "There's horsemen riding up into town from the south road!"

"Are they Imperials?" asked Wilhelm.

"Nay, Wilhelm," the woman shook her head. "They look like elves."

Crixus slipped out of the inn with several others at the young woman's news. Sure enough, in the gathering darkness of the streets of Ivarstead, a group of horsemen clad in black rode up the south road into the town. As they entered the town, Crixus saw with dead certainty that these were high elves, the same people he had fought in the Great War and the conflict in Hammerfell leading up to the Red Dog Pass. But from their garb, these were no soldiers of the Dominion; these were Thalmor justicars. Behind them marched a line of soldiers that made Crixus' eyes swell in shock. They were Imperial Legionnaires.

"This can't be happening," Crixus muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"Town of Ivarstead," one of the black-robed Thalmor atop the horse announced. "It has been told us that there are those in this town who do not abide by the White-Gold Concordant. Therefore, under the terms provided us by the White-Gold Concordant, I am exercising our right to search your homes and take every man, woman and child believed to be worshiping the false god Talos into custody."

"Get outta here, goldie!" a balding Nord man said in a measured voice. "Your kind ain't welcome here."

"My kind?" laughed the Thalmor mockingly. "You forget your place, human scum. _My_ kind are, by rights, the masters of all of Tamriel. _Your_ kind are the verminous filth that do not belong."

"This land ain't yours, elf," a woman with large, muscular arms, retorted. "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!"

"I believe the reality is not in your favor," replied the elf. "Skyrim has always belonged to the elves. You white mongrels are only here as vagrants, ignorant squatters we only tolerate as long as you are useful. I will ask the town guard to stand down if you do not wish this to fall to violence: we will be more than happy to oblige if it does."

"Says you and what army, elf?" another asked.

"I have twenty justicars at my command," the elf retorted. "More besides, the Imperial Legion, who signed the White-Gold Concordant, have graciously volunteered to assist in bringing the local criminality to justice."

"This ain't Legion territory!" another retorted.

"You can't do this!"

"I can, and I am," smiled the elf.

"Ulfric will hear about this!" another shouted.

"Keep telling yourself that," the elf returned. "Maybe it will come true, but if you resist, you won't be alive long enough to appreciate it. Now stand aside! You men, search every house!"

As soon as Crixus saw crimson-clad Imperial troops walk into the streets, he quickly disappeared into the shadows behind the large mill. It was too much to believe: the Thalmor could not possibly have so much control that they were able to lead raids against people in the Rift, so far east from both the Summerset Isles and the embassy in Haafingar. Moreover, the Empire would never treat with the Thalmor, or even aid and abet them in their cause. Not that he cared about the people of Ivarstead: if they were violating the law by worshiping Talos, it was only just that they forfeit their lives for it. But the implications of the Empire and the Thalmor working together were what he feared the most.

But he shook his head and addressed himself to the task at hand. The note Nazir had left him told of where he could find Narfi the beggar: in a ruined shack on the western side of the river which snaked through Ivarstead. It was only fortune that caused the Thalmor to make their raid on Ivarstead on the same day that he arrived. Now the town guards would be preoccupied with them and not pay any attention to what he was doing, especially at night.

Crixus crossed the bridge without any difficulty, then slowly made his way into the ruined house. His feet creaked against the floorboards no matter how softly or gently he stepped. Furthermore, no matter where he moved, the boards continued to creak. He hoped that Narfi was deaf or slept like a stone, or else he would have heard him.

"Wha-?" a bemused voice asked. "Who's there?"

Crixus' blood turned cold. He had been discovered. Slowly he rose to his full height, eclipsing the light of the dull-red Masser. Even in the inky darkness, the old beggar could sense that someone was close. Crixus also could sense where his prey lingered: he could hear uneasy, ragged breath coming from just a few feet ahead of him. How he wished that he was back in Morrowind, where Nighteye potions were easy to purchase and he could see in the dark just like a Khajiit.

"Who are you?" the voice asked fearfully. "Why are you here?"

Slowly Crixus drew his knife. It had been only three days since he last killed a Nord and he was itching to spill their blood. If the people of Ivarstead would be smart enough to hold their tongues (secretly he doubted that would happen), at least he would end that night knowing that one person had died.

"Who are you?" Narfi asked again, his voice filled with fear.

"I am Sithis," Crixus hissed from behind his veil. "And I am here to do the work of Sithis."

Moving quickly, he pushed Narfi to the ground, feeling in the darkness for the beggar's mouth which he covered with his left hand. His right hand moved to his knife, which he prepared to bring down into the man's throat when suddenly he felt hard, gnarled teeth clench down upon his hand. He clenched tighter but the teeth bit down even tighter. A cry escaped his lips as he tried to punch the beggar into submission. His first punch hit wood, causing him to groan again as he swung a second time. This time struck, but instead of knocking him out, the beggar bit down harder into Crixus' glove. He was putting up quite a fight, it seemed. He then found the man had pushed his hand away from his mouth for a brief moment.

"Help!" he cried out. "Help, please! Murder!"

Crixus dove the dagger into the beggar's chest, but he let out a agonized cry. He had missed his mark. As Narfi flailed about in the dark, Crixus reached for his hair, seizing him from behind. Now that he knew where he was, he drove his dagger right into the beggar's throat. There was something all too satisfying in Crixus' mind about hearing the gurgling sound made by someone as they choked to death on their own life's blood. He released Narfi's greasy hair and let the beggar fall to the floor, choking to death.

"Assassin!" someone else cried out. "Over there! Kill him!"

Crixus suddenly realized that he had been spotted. There was no way to go south back to the road he had heard, not by way of the river. The other way would be to travel the mountain, which he knew there was no way back down, or to go back over the bridge. But as he was thus waiting, a horseman carrying a torch approached him.

"Well well," the haughty drawl of a high elven voice greeted. "What have we here?"

"None of your concern," Crixus returned. "I don't worship Talos."

The elf laughed. "Are you so naive to think that we're only in this god-forsaken land because of your false _human_ god?"

"I'm warning you," Crixus stated. "There will be consequences."

"What?" mocked the elf. "Will your emperor slap my wrist for having you brought in chains to Northwatch Keep? Fool! He signed the White-Gold Concordant, he gave us permission to act as we see fit to uphold the terms of the treaty anywhere in our empire."

"_Your_ empire?" Crixus asked.

"We let your weak emperor keep this land on lease," said the Thalmor haughtily. "But the day is coming soon when we will take back what is ours. And when that happens, all that is wrongfully yours shall return to _us_ and your kind will cease to exist." Crixus said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the elf's slanted golden orbs. If he was going to die, he did not want to show any fear or disbelief. He had faced down death before during the Great War and in Llewynn Pass. He was not afraid to die.

"Or," the elf inquired knowingly. "Do you answer to a power even greater than Titus Mede?" He then threw back his head and laughed.

"For centuries your kind have been a thorn in the side of the Dominion," he stated. "And now, after so long, you choose to reappear?"

"You can't kill us all, elf," Crixus returned. "Something always survives."

"Not where the Dominion is concerned," the elf retorted. Behind him, two other justicars and a line of Imperial soldiers gathered around to back him up. There was no way that Crixus could escape this way.

"This man had better be brought back with us for questioning," the elf said to the others. "He's a Dark Brotherhood assassin."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**(AN: Before this chapter got out of hand, like the last one did, i thought i'd give us a cliff-hanger with a bit of fluff. This chapter also saw the formal appearance of Ingun Black-Briar. I wonder if anyone will find her character of any interest so far. Also, yes, the Thieves Guild quest is continuing along smoothly.)  
**


	37. An Unplanned Attack

**(AN: Last night, while publishing two long chapters back to back, i also finished mapping out most of where i'm going with Crixus' story. Strange that i had both a massive amount of time in the story to do his things and therefore must needs spread the story out, but at the same time found myself running incredibly short on time as well.)**

**(Oh well, the gist is that this chapter was going to have something happen at Helgen [yes, Helgen. But not the dragon], but i decided to do something completely random, but to still feature Helgen just for shites and giggles. So here is my version of pre-Dragon crisis Helgen.)**

* * *

**An Unplanned Attack**

In an instant, Crixus drew a knife from his belt and threw it at the elf's hand, holding the torch: he had just enough light to make his shot and no other option. Without light, he could make his escape and, from the roaring sound of water nearby, he rightly guessed that the Treva River bled down into a waterfall which cascaded off of the Rift plateau: jumping down there would be tempting fate. As soon as the torch fell, he darted off towards the southern end of the inlet. The current was weaker this far upstream that he felt he could be able to wade through near where the land vanished at the mountain's edge.

"Spread out!" he could hear the elf ordering from far behind. "Find the assassin! I want him brought to me alive!"

Crixus was now at the water's edge; the rushing waters were within inches from his boots. Though he had been fortunate enough to never suffer being in an Aldmeri prison camp during the War or endure their torture chambers, he had heard the rumors of the horrors that went on behind closed moon-stone doors. He would rather risk the water than let himself be captured, especially by the Thalmor. Into the water he leaped, hoping that he could reach the other side before he was caught. The current was much stronger than he had imagined, and it took all of his strength to keep from being swept downstream towards the waterfall. A good minute or two passed before Crixus' feet were not encumbered by the waters around him and he could slosh onward.

All night Crixus ran, fearing that stopping would be fatal. His horse was still tied up in the town of Ivarstead, but he dared not go back for it, not with so many out looking for him. On and on he went, passing through the wooded forests to the south of Ivarstead. Morning seemed so far away, for each mile in his cold, wet boots was just as hard as the last one. About midnight, he began to note the cold chill rising up around him. The warm, soft earth became cold and hard and he felt a gossamer-soft cold, wet thing touch his face: snow. He remembered his arrival in Skyrim: cold, wet and dangerous. Now he was walking towards the pass with soaked boots: his months in Llewynn Pass had taught him that being wet in winter made for a short life. But he had no shoes to replace the wet boots until they dried off. Frustratedly, he made his way in the dark to a large stone, hoping that it would give him some cover, and proceeded to remove his boots. Once they were off, he focused on the last bit of light he saw and conjured a ball of Candlelight to give him a little bit of light for the task ahead. Now with light, he tore off the hem of his cloak: his legs would have to go cold for a while. With this and a knife in his other hand, he cut out cloth swathes to wrap around his feet. It would not do at all, but this was better than nothing.

The later half of the night was spent trudging down a path that led uphill into the mountains. Ever and anon the cold winds whipped at Crixus' body, biting through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. The sounds of pursuit had long since faded into the shadows of the night, but Crixus did not believe that they had so easily given up the search. He had to keep moving: somehow or other, he simply _had_ to.

While walking through the snow, he heard a howl somewhere in the distance. Summoning the Candlelight spell once again and drawing out a knife, Crixus went on warily through the cold dark. For a long while there was only the distant howling on the wind, but not a sign of paw or a glow of eyes in the dark. The night grew on and the road seemed to go on forever, yet still Crixus held his course.

Then, suddenly, the light went out. Quickly he summoned the ball of light again, but it was too late. In its glow, just beyond, he could see a pair of orbs low to the ground. There was a low growl, like the sound of a dog. Crixus shouted, but his voice died in the cold wind before him like a ghastly whimper. The growl intensified and then, nearer than before, he heard a howl. Suddenly a large white shape leaped out of the darkness. Crixus thrust his knife into the thing, then pushed it off of him. Two more attacked him at the same time, one biting into his left leg while the other leaped at his chest. With a mighty swipe of the back-side of his hand, he knocked the wolf back into the ground. With his right leg he kicked the wolf that was biting his leg, knocking him to the ground. In a moment, the other wolves would be upon him. Swinging wildly with his right arm, it was caught in the iron jaws of a wolf. His left hand punched the wolf's snout while he could hear two more panting as they ran towards him. The wolf on his arm balked with a yelp and Crixus' legs kicked back the other two wolves and he got back up onto his feet, his left leg still weak from the attack. The snow was stirred where the wolves were thrown, their paw-prints were everywhere, the ground where he struggled to find his footing was colored red with his own blood and nearby he saw the body of the one he had knifed. There was no other sign.

"Come on!" Crixus roared. "Is that all you've got? Come on, 'fatherland', I fucking dare you!"

* * *

Morning in Helgen. Though it had once been called a 'backwater hovel' by the Viscount of Bruma, the 'Gateway to the North' had, like Bruma, become more open to influence from Cyrodiil. There was a large Imperial presence in the keep at Helgen, of such strength that the Stormcloaks could not use the pass through Haemar's Shame to take Falkreath from the loyalists. Aside from the usual patrol of the garrison, nothing much happened in this quiet mountain town.

So it was warily that the Legion guardsmen on the gatehouse watched the frosted and bloodied ranger hobble his way into their town. Ignoring the glances, he found his way to a large long-house near the southern end of town: this was likely the inn. Above it was a sign which read 'the Helgen Homestead.' Crixus pushed open the door and slumped into the dark inn. Mere moments later, a man ran out from behind the counter and helped Crixus onto his feet.

"Road got you down, stranger?" he asked. "Oh well, it's no matter. As long as your coin's good, you can have one of the rooms here."

"Get off me," Crixus groaned.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but you can barely stand," replied the Nord. "And what are you doing with no shoes? Do you got a death wish or something?"

"Excuse me, Vilod," another voice spoke. "Let me help him."

Crixus was then lifted up by a man roughly his own height, clean-faced but with light brown hair. To Crixus' amazement, this man was clad in the garb of the Legion.

"You're with the Legion?" Crixus asked.

"Helgen garrison," the man returned. "Though I hail from Riverwood. Come now, let's get you a seat and some strong drink to chase off the cold."

The brown-haired soldier brought Crixus over to a chair and called for the Nord Vilod to bring him some of his spiced mead. The soldier walked over to another table and brought his trencher over to Crixus' table and shared with him some of his bread and soup. Crixus ate slowly and reluctantly, eying the man before him: he wore the colors of the Legion, but that he might have been a rebel who stole that uniform was not too far-fetched.

"What brought you down out of the mountain pass with no shoes, stranger?" the soldier asked.

"My boots were wet," Crixus stated.

"Well, they ain't now," the soldier returned. Definitely a Nord. "Here, I'll put them by the fire to warm them up while you eat."

"Why are you so concerned about me?" asked Crixus.

"The Legion ain't what the rebels make of them, friend," the Nord replied. "We're here to help Skyrim, not harm her. I live up to that, showing hospitality to all those I meet, not just kin-folk."

"Hmph," Crixus grunted. "And what's your name...friend?"

"Hadvar of Riverwood," he replied.

"Just call me Crixus," the Imperial stated. "Everyone else does."

"You're from Cyrodiil?"

Crixus nodded. "I'm also in the Legion."

"Well, then," Hadvar replied. "We should get you to the keep. There's plenty of beds there and our healers can have your wounds bound and our couriers send a notice to your legate, telling him we've found you."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I don't want any of that. My mission is one that demands the utmost secrecy."

"There's no reason to be afraid," Hadvar smiled. "Helgen is a loyal town."

"And always _will_ be!" Vilod announced as he approached their table, placing a pewter tankard on the table filled with spiced mead. Crixus picked up the cup and drank from it.

"I'll get you something to eat as well," Hadvar added. "We can talk once you've eaten your fill and rested from the journey."

Crixus placed the cup down but said nothing as Hadvar went his way to find Vilod. Just then he heard loud footsteps from the door. Turning his head slightly thither, he saw a massive Nord come waddling into the inn and take a seat that almost shook the inn. Whether it was man or woman Crixus could not tell - both wore long hair - but there was one thing he could definitely tell: this thing was huge. Not precisely tall the way that Torgrim was, towering almost head and shoulders above everyone, but more so as wide as a sload. In the sload-thing's hand was a long bow-staff and, looking the massive thing over, Crixus saw no other gear or weapons. He even doubted that there was an armorer anywhere in all of Tamriel that could have forged plate large enough to cover this mass.

As for what story he would tell Hadvar when he returned with the food? He did not want to tell him that he was recently in a rebel hold: that wouldn't go over well any way he put it. Nor could he tell him that he was going to Falkreath to report his success to the Dark Brotherhood.

At that moment, Hadvar arrived with a plate of food which he placed upon Crixus' table.

"Just a moment, friend," Hadvar stated. "I promise we'll hear all about what happened to you, just..." He looked over the cuts and wounds on Crixus' arm and leg. "...I'll send for the healer. Must do something about those wounds."

Crixus watched as the soldier made his way to the door, then turned to the plate. To his surprise, the plate was gone. He had seen it there a moment before when Hadvar brought it in, but now it was missing. Looking around, he saw the sload-thing waddling back to its table, his plate in its hands. Crixus rolled his eyes: he hadn't bought the food, so it wasn't his fault if this portly fucker wanted to steal it. He would simply use his own money to buy food of his own. Carefully he made his way up to the bar, as gingerly as his cold, injured left leg could afford, and sat down at one of the stools.

"Bartender," Crixus called out. "I need some food. A bowl of something hot, some ripe cheese, bread and pork."

"Ah, if only it were me break already," Vilod mused. "What I wouldn't do for a good loin of pork! Right with you, stranger!"

Crixus idled at the bar while Vilod went back to the store-room to bring out a clean trencher and the food as requested. Minutes later, he returned with a steaming bowl of soup with sliced eidar cheese, wholesome bread and salted pork on a platter. Crixus reached for his purse and placed the coins on the bar and Vilod slid the tray over to him.

Right before his eyes, a huge, pudgy hand reached out and dragged the trencher across the bar away from Crixus. Looking there, he saw the sload-thing had drank the soup in one gulp and was now face deep in _his_ salted pork, which he had bought with his own money.

"Excuse me," Crixus spoke up. "I believe that was _my_ food."

The large thing paid him no heed as it continued to devour his food.

"Excuse me, lad," Crixus interjected.

The sload-thing let out a massive, room-shaking belch, then turned to Crixus. "I'm no lad. My name is Katja."

"Whatever," Crixus replied, still unsure if this were a man or woman: it lacked the silhouette of either. "Look, you've taken my food, twice now!"

"I'm hungry!" bemoaned Katja.

"Then buy your own food," Crixus stated. "But don't go stealing my food."

"But I was hungry!" Katja repeated.

"Just like you Nords," Crixus groaned, rolling his eyes. "You think the world's your fucking oyster, that you can just take whatever you want if you want it!"

"You know, you're being very rude," Katja returned.

"Me rude?" Crixus chuckled. "You stole my food twice and _I'm_ the rude one?"

"Look, just leave me alone," Katja replied. "I've been on a long journey from Hammerfell and I'm hungry."

Crixus scoffed. "Like you need anymore food."

"Go ahead, say what you want," Katja stated. "But I can out-eat anyone in all of Tamriel!"

Crixus chuckled. "Obviously. But how is that a feat worthy of praise, huh? I fought in the Great War, protecting ungrateful b*tches like you from the Aldmeri Dominion. Now _that_ is praise-worthy."

"Go away and let me eat," Katja bemoaned. "You're such a dick!"

Crixus laughed. "Look, it's been a long few days for me. I've been on the road, attacked by wolves, and _I_ need the food more than you do." At this, Katja turned to Crixus and placed half of the bread loaf topped with a slice of eidar cheese into her mouth.

"You know what?" Crixus asked. "Someone needs to teach you how to behave in front of your elders."

"You wanna throw down?" Katja asked, turning to Crixus. "Let's go, right here. All you can eat. Last one standing wins."

Crixus threw back his head in laughter. "Really? You'd expect me to fall for that? That's stupid! How about a _real_ contest of skill?"

"Like what?"

"A duel," Crixus suggested. "I hear brawling is legal in Skyrim. Why not?"

Katja snorted loudly as she turned to Crixus. "Really? You want to duel me? I could squash you like a bug!"

"Size matters not," Crixus returned. "Like any other opponent, you can be felled just the same by an arrow or sword-wound to the heart."

"Look, if you two are gonna brawl," Vilod spoke up. "Take it outside. I just finished cleaning this place up after Gunnar Stone-Eye had that fight with the dark elf who tried to have his way with Hamming."

"Name the stakes," Katja returned.

"If you win," Crixus stated. "I'll buy you all the food you can stomach." He scoffed and added an aside. "Which would probably empty the larders here."

"And if you win?"

"You buy me breakfast," Crixus returned. "_And_ you pay me the amount of both meals you stole from me."

"This is ridiculous," Katja dismissed. "If you're so bigoted that you'd rather I starve..."

"Starve?" Crixus snickered. "It would take at least a year before you starved."

"Alright, that's it!" the sload-sized Nord shouted, rising up from her chair. "I'm gonna make you eat those words!"

"Is food all you care about?" Crixus returned.

The large dark-haired Nord was crimson-faced as she waddled back to her chair and picked up her long-staff. Crixus limped back to the door, pushing it open as he made his way out to the door. Behind him waddled the large Nord, whom Crixus scrutinized with bemused disapproval. Aside from size, her only weapon was a bow-staff: though not to be wholly dismissed, there would be no piercing or slashing damage from that if he could avoid it. Whereas he had the prime physical form of a Legionnaire, even after twenty years as a prefecture, this Nord looked like the illustrations of sloads he had seen in books: massive girth with short arms and stubby, ineffectual legs. Mobility was on his side.

"Crixus!" Turning about, Crixus saw Hadvar with a healer behind him approaching the inn. "What in the name of the Eight is going on?"

"That fat b*tch stole my food," Crixus answered. "So I'm going to make her pay."

"Look, there's no need for this," Hadvar interjected. "I'll go back in and buy you something else."

"No," Crixus shook his head. "I'm not letting this arrogant little child go unpunished."

"Over food?" Hadvar asked.

"You'd never understand," Crixus stated. For some reason, he said that instead of what was _really_ going on in his mind: that he would fight a Nord over something so apparently small as simply being a Nord. Hunger and being robbed were reasons enough, as was this young (so he felt from her tone) Nord's manners, but Crixus _wanted_ to fight. Though it had only been last night since he last took a life, he hadn't had a decent challenge for his skills. Though on a normal day, fully rested and unwounded, this ignorant little ball of butter would prove no challenge, today was different. Crixus was wounded, exhausted, foot-sore _and_ he was hungry: exactly how he was when he slew a thousand Altmer during the Battle of the Red Dog Pass, or so the rumors said.

This _would_ be a challenge indeed.

"Are you ready?" Crixus shouted.

"Are _you_ ready to be humiliated, straw-pole?" Katja replied. He then watched as she started waddling backwards away from him, with her staff in hand and eyes forward.

"What the fuck is she doing?" Crixus mused to himself.

To his surprise and amusement, Katja began a slow-paced jog that was supposed to be, he surmised, a run, with her staff raised in a lancing position. One end of the staff, the one which was pointed at Crixus, was planted firmly into the ground and then Katja leaped up...and came crashing back onto the ground as her staff broke in two. Crixus laughed as he walked over to his fallen foe, drawing out his gladius.

"Do you surrender?" he asked.

"Unfair!" Katja bemoaned. "That's never happened to me before! I call foul-play! Let me get back up and I'll beat you yet!"

Crixus chuckled. "I'd like to see you try."

Just then a handful of dirt came flying towards Crixus' face. One hand rose to cover his face while he felt his left leg swept out from under him and crash down painfully on to the ground. Gritting his teeth to keep the pain down, Crixus rubbed the dust out of his eyes to see his opponent flailing about on short, ineffectual arms and legs, trying to get back onto her feet. Crixus, meanwhile, was already on his feet, his eyes blinking through tears as he walked over to the struggling Katja, coming up around behind the head, and placed the point of his gladius against her thick throat.

"You're done," Crixus replied. "Now about breakfast..."

"Never!" Katja roared, flailing about on the ground.

"Crixus!" Hadvar shouted, running up to Crixus' side. "Come now, there's no need to fight."

Crixus groaned as he walked away from the large fat Nord, following Hadvar to where the healer stood on the side of the central courtyard out in front of the Helgen keep. With one last look behind him, Crixus saw the wide sload-thing slowly and clumsily push itself back onto its feet, then waddle back towards the inn.

"Dammit," groaned Crixus. "I could have gotten my money's worth out of that fat b*tch!"

"It's not worth it, picking fights with every traveler in town," Hadvar stated. "The Empire's image cannot afford to be smirched."

"But the Empire also stands for law and order," Crixus stated. "And I won't be robbed blindly like that."

"Ah, I like that," Hadvar stated. "A true warrior, fighting for law and order, just like the Legion. Not like them damn thieves in Riften."

Crixus halted for a moment, his blood running cold. How much could this ignorant, brown-haired Nord guess about him merely from first glance? He was not wearing the Cowl of Grey Fox, one of the fabled artifacts of the Thieves Guild, nor any gear that the others wore. So why did Hadvar bring up the Thieves Guild?

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked evasively.

"Oh, it's only that they rob people for fun," Hadvar stated. "Word's reached Helgen that they're growing large again." He chuckled. "I bet they would think twice about their livelihood as thieves if someone stole from _them_."

"I wouldn't think so," Crixus replied. "The Thieves Guild are a guild: they're allowed to steal, just as how the Fighters Guild is allowed to kill. Stealing from a guild is a crime."

"And a guild stealing from everyone isn't?" Hadvar asked.

"No," Crixus shook his head. "You simply don't understand."

"What's there to understand?" Hadvar asked. "They're thieves, they steal and stealing is against Imperial law. You know, maybe I was wrong about you. All this talk defending the Thieves Guild makes me wonder maybe if you're one of them."

"I serve the Empire first and foremost," Crixus replied.

"That's what I want to hear," Hadvar smiled. "Now come, let's see to your wounds."

* * *

**(AN: I really need to go back to _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ and bring it up to scratch with the level of _The Dragon and the Bear_ and this story. I mean, yes, i was kind of new to the _Elder Scrolls_ lore then, but i'm getting better and now i can't write a single story without having a dozen _UESP_ pages open for reference.)**

**(Concerning this chapter, i did get to have a little fun as well as show just how strong Crixus is. As I've said before, he's "army strong" but doesn't flaunt his strength the way Eirik does with wearing heavy dragon-bone armor and swinging a great-sword with enough strength to take off limbs.)**


	38. Accords of Madness

**(AN: Now we are introducing everyone's second favorite minor character [aside from Aela and Serana] and much more of the Dark Brotherhood quest-line. Speaking of which, some reviewers were upset that, in the chapter "The Music of Life", Astrid came off as kind of cold. Well, when i made her appear in _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_, her depiction was based heavily off of that of the lead character from Sophie Treadwell's play _Machinal_: someone who spurned faith and spirituality because it condemned what made her feel good. That was just what i got from it, and that was what i applied to Astrid to flesh out her character, aside from what else we see in the game. But she's not a total dick to Crixus, as we shall see in this chapter.)**

**(Also, half-way through "Through the Snows of Spring", i mistakenly called Eridor "Eribor" and nobody caught it. Also, did i ever once refer to Crixus in this story as "Eirik"? Because my brother is on a rampage through this story, erasing everything i've done about Crixus for his pro-Imperial white-washed version of _The Dragon of the South_ and he claims that i called Crixus "Eirik" twice in the first two chapters, but i just went through those chapters and didn't see it once.)**

**(Warning, there is some iffy material in this chapter that is probably not for the faint of heart.)**

* * *

**Accords of Madness**

Crixus spent little time at Helgen, for the town was small, quaint and boring: he believed everything the Viscount of Bruma had told about this backwater hovel. Once his wounds were bound and treated and his boots warmed, Crixus shod himself and assayed to continue his journey. Hadvar had a horse brought to him which would speed him on his journey.

The rest of the day was uneventful as Crixus wound his way through the snow-clad crags below the Throat of the World and into the evergreen forests of Falkreath. Going west, Crixus knew that he could likely arrive at the place he knew as the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary by evening.

But, as it was, Crixus underestimated the width of the hold of Falkreath and it was nighttime when he arrived at the town of Falkreath. Spending a few septims at the Dead Man's Drink, the local tavern, he quietly slept the night away. Though Falkreath was of sufficient size, it seemed to not be nearly as inviting as the other towns: not enough women to lay and the beer was piny, more so than Vilod's wine spiced with juniper.

When the morning dawned, bright and early, Crixus left, had a light breakfast, then continued on his way down the road leading westward out of town. He found the place just fine enough, though there was a wooden wagon sitting in the glade just outside of the door by the black pool. The door opened when his hand touched the stone and he passed into the Sanctuary. But this time it was very bright, with torches and candles in the niches. As he passed down the stairs into the room where he had met the other members of the Dark Brotherhood, he heard several voices talking. There was one he did not recognize: a man with a slight Colovian accent who seemed to stammer and speak rapidly at times.

"S-Surely you can see the good in this, huh?" the newcomer asked. "T-The Night Mother is mother to us all! It is _her_ voice we follow, her-her will that guides us. Remember the Tenets! The Tenets! Yes, the Tenets! 'Never dishonor the Night Mother' is the first, the _first_ tenet! Would you disobey the Tenets and risk...punishment?"

"Keep talking, little man!" a thick Nordic voice growled. "We'll see just who gets punished!"

"Oh shut up, you old war-dog," grumbled a haggard Colovian voice. "This man has had a long journey, we can at least be civil. Cheydinhal, was it?"

"Yes, yes, Cheydinhal!" the newcomer stammered. "It was a long journey. Long, hard, and lonely, so lonely."

"Master Cicero," the old voice stated. "For my part, I am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived at our humble sanctuary. Your coming will be a welcome return to tradition."

"Yes, yes, of course!" the odd one named Cicero returned. "Oh, yes! What a kind and-and wise wizard you are! Sure to win the Lady's favor!"

"Hmph," Crixus heard Astrid's voice speak up. "So it's settled then? Cicero _and_ the Night Mother will stay here. The rest of you will show him the respect he deserves as Keeper." Crixus strained his ears to hear what she said next. "Isn't that right, Arnbjorn?" The old Nord growled in response. "Dismissed!"

Crixus stepped out from behind the side of the stairwell where he was hiding and joined the others as they made their way back to their places. Astrid, he saw, was speaking with someone dressed in a crimson jester's outfit, complete with a harlequin hat with silver bells on the tails.

"Let's keep one thing straight, clown," Astrid seethed. "Night Mother or not, _I_ am the leader of this Sanctuary. _My_ word is law. Is that understood?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Cicero. "Of course, absolutely! P-Perfectly, mistress. You're the boss!"

Astrid groaned, then turned about to see Crixus approach. Her behavior changed like night and day. She approached him with something of a smile on her face and placed one hand upon Crixus' shoulder in a familial gesture.

"Welcome back, brother," she grinned. "I trust you've done your best to spread the word of Sithis to the people?"

"Of course," Crixus replied. "I'll tell you all about what happened."

"Please do," she returned. "We all love to hear about a good killing. Listen, the last time you were here I was short with you. I did not mean to be that way. You must understand that, as leader, I won't have anyone usurping my authority or demeaning what we do."

"I understand," Crixus nodded.

"People say that murder is wrong," Astrid continued. "But was it any more right when my uncle tried to fuck me?"

"I wouldn't say so," Crixus returned.

"Good, I knew there was a reason I chose you," Astrid stated. "But here with the Dark Brotherhood, it's different. Out there people look at you strangely if you love killing. But it's the one thing that makes me happy, the one thing that feels good. Does _that_ make it bad if it brings me such happiness?"

"Hardly," Crixus added.

Astrid laughed as she slapped Crixus' shoulder. "You're going to fit right in, and that's good. We're a family here, and we'll take good care of you if you're loyal."

Crixus chuckled. "Why are you telling me this?"

Astrid looked over her shoulder at the jester, then leaned in. "Because of Cicero and the Night Mother. They represent a return to the old ways, one that is best left buried in the shadows of the past. Where were the Tenets when the corsairs sacked the Wayrest Sanctuary? Adhering to a bunch of cryptic bullshit written on old stone didn't help us survive: _I_ did. We're the last bastion of the Dark Brotherhood because I didn't keep to some old religious rites. I'm not sure what that jester thinks, bringing that box here, but this is _my_ Sanctuary."

"As you say," Crixus returned.

Astrid departed while Crixus began his search for Nazir: if he hadn't learned about his successful missions, he was about to learn. In the same meeting room, the others began to gather around the little vampire girl Babbette who began a descriptive recounting of one of her most favorite kills. Crixus thought about joining them when suddenly the jester Cicero appeared before him.

"Brother in darkness!" he greeted. "Yes, you were not here with the others. Perhaps you will be more welcoming than the 'mistress' and her lapdog."

"Maybe," Crixus evasively replied.

"It-It was so lonely on the boat-ride from Cheydinhal to Skyrim," Cicero continued. "Nothing but the silence, always the silence. Driving poor Cicero insane. Even in this land, there was nothing but silence. Cicero had no one. Then there was that pesky farmer: rather dumb for a fellow Colovian. Tried to put Cicero in prison, he did. But Cicero escaped, he did. But the farmer didn't escape, nor did his fat, ugly wife. Ooh, so many knife wounds."

"You killed them?" Crixus asked.

"First Tenet of the Dark Brotherhood:" quoth Cicero. "'Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.'" Crixus nodded, but the jester seemed bemused as he craned his thin, squinting eyes towards Crixus.

"What?" he asked.

"Cicero has seen many who have walked under the shadow of the Night Mother," Cicero replied. "Many different kinds of killers. But you, you have seen much death, haven't you? Caused quite a bit of it yourself, I would imagine. Few come here who have anything to lose, yet your acceptance shows much about you."

"How can I accept anything I barely know?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, well then Cicero will educate you!" exclaimed the jester as he pulled up a chair for himself, then proceeded to give it to Crixus while he paced around the chair like a little child. "There are five tenets of the Dark Brotherhood, five simple laws which govern what we do. The first one is 'Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.' The second one is 'Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.'" For a moment Cicero paused, a vacant expression on his face.

"What is it now?" Crixus asked.

"So many..." Cicero mused aloud. "So many abandoned us. So many walked away from the shadows. And where is judgment?"

"If you're talking about Sithis," Crixus began, but the jester spun around on his heel.

"Do not dishonor Sithis!" he exclaimed.

"Let me guess, to do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis?" Crixus asked.

"It-It's no joke!" Cicero continued. "Sithis is nothing to shake one's nose at. You see, Sithis is not a god like the Divines or a demon like the Daedra, nor does it have a plane of Oblivion dedicated to it. We call him the 'Father' of our order, but Sithis is neither male nor female. Sithis is everything and nothing. It is and-and is not at the same time. It is into the arms of Sithis where those who walk the path of the Dark Brotherhood go when they die, for all things become nothing in the end."

"Uh-huh," Crixus mused. "That seems logical. And what about those who dishonor Sithis?"

"They also become nothing," Cicero stated.

"That's rather fair, actually," Crixus commented. "No Aetherius or Oblivion or sovereign-guard, just nothing: a sweet release from the evils of life." Cicero smiled. "So, what are the other tenets?"

"Hmm? Oh, oh, the Tenets! Yes!" Cicero stammered, going back on his laps around Crixus' chair. "The third: 'Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.' Number four: 'Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis.' Finally, there is the last one. 'Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so...'"

"'Is to invoke the wrath of Sithis,'" Crixus finished.

"Yes, exactly!" Cicero exclaimed. "You and I are going to get along just fine."

Crixus nodded, then turned his attention to the main group. The little vampire girl was finishing up her story of her most favorite kill.

"'Please, mister! You just have to help me!'" Babbette bemoaned. "'My mother and father are dead and I'm so alone and afraid!' Then this Dunmer creep comes walking up, an older fellow with a shake in his voice. 'Ooh, you are such a pretty little girl. Would the sweetie like a sweetie?'" The others burst into fits of laughter.

"Very good impression!" the Argonian Vee-Zara stated. "Now go on to the next part."

"Okay, okay," Babbette continued. "'Oh yes, please, mister! I'm so very hungry!' Then he's all 'Come along, my sweetie. I know a way to the candy shop, just through this dark alley.' And then he takes me into this dark alley, thinking that I'm some wide-eyed, precocious six-year-old who'll believe anything he says. I follow him up till the end and he starts making his move on me. 'My, it's so dark down here!' I exclaim fearfully. 'Oh, but you are so very beautiful. What a lovely smile, your t...argh!'" Babbette then proceeded to imitate an elderly Dunmer having his neck torn apart by a precocious-looking vampire child, complete with screams and cries for mercy. Those gathered around her exploded into peels of laughter.

"Oh, Babbette!" Gabriella gasped. "You are just so wicked!"

"I'm good at what I do!" she replied.

Crixus rose up from where he was sitting and approached the little vampire.

"Oh, Crixus, there you are!" she exclaimed. "Did you get what I asked for?"

"Most of it," Crixus stated. "But the shop was out of nightshade, deathbells and there was no Jarrin root." He then proceeded to remove his back-pack and take out all that he had purchased from Elgrim's Elixirs. Babbette examined the things and nodded in approval.

"Everything appears to be in order," she said. "Though we're still low on the other things. Ugh, I'll talk to Astrid about the Jarrin root. It is hard to come by, after all."

"I know," Crixus nodded. Just as he was about to say 'So is everything in Black Marsh', he suddenly spun around and threw a knife at something in the shadows. There was a cry and moments later out walked Nazir, still looking at where Crixus' dagger had fallen.

"Next time you try to sneak up on me," Crixus stated. "That's going through your heart."

"Don't take offense," Nazir replied. "It was only a test. Stealth is a skill every agent of the Dark Brotherhood should cultivate. Now, tell me what happened."

"Beitild is dead," Crixus began. "I disguised myself as a miner and snuck into the mines outside of Dawnstar. I pretended that I found gold and had her brought over immediately. The moment she wasn't looking, I slit her throat and buried her under the rubble I had been digging up."

Nazir chuckled. "I hear the mining business is extremely cutthroat. That's a good hundred septims right there. What about the others?"

"Ennodius, the paranoid fool at Anga's Mill," Crixus stated. "Was also an easy one. He was asleep and I turned his mill on. When he came to investigate, I shoved his face into the running mill-saw. You should have seen it, there was blood everywhere."

Once again, Nazir let out a low, unsettling chuckle through his pearly-white grin. "Those splinters and nails and saws can be quite deadly. Glad to see you were careful for yourself." Though he said nothing, the others were gathering around behind him and Crixus, eagerly listening to his reports.

"The last one was even more of a challenge," Crixus continued. "The dilapidated shite-hole he was sleeping in creaked more than the walkways of Riften. The bastard thought he heard something and awoke in a cold sweat. When he asked who was there, I told him 'I am Sithis and I am here to do the work of Sithis!'"

"No way!" Babbette exclaimed. "That's unbelievably cool!"

"Must have made the old Nord piss himself," hissed Vee-Zara.

"Hmm," Nazir mused, turning to Crixus with a grim expression on his face. "Congratulations. You slaughtered an emaciated beggar in cold blood." Crixus looked at him strangely. From all of his other responses and those from the others, he did not expect _this_ response.

Then, suddenly, Nazir's smile widened and he burst into laughter.

"The look on your face!" Gabriella exclaimed.

"It was like this!" Babbette stated, her face taking on the exaggerated expression of one shocked beyond belief.

"So Astrid was right in choosing you," Nazir gasped after his long, hearty laugh. "I hear she has something for you, but if you really want to prove your skill, there is something I would like to add."

"What's that?" Crixus asked.

"There is one contract which some of our other assassins keep failing," Nazir continued. "It's someone here in Falkreath. A vampire named Hern at Half-Moon Mill. You might have seen it on your way up here. Hern has been living there, attempting to blend into human society for several years. He's never far from his female companion Hert, also a vampire. The contract is on him, but you'll probably have to face her as well. So for Sithis' sake, watch yourself."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"As I may have said before," Babbette interjected. "Vampires are rather strong. Some of the stronger ones I've encountered can bash a full grown man's face in with one swipe of their hands. Me? I can leave some very deep wounds, but I'm not nearly that strong."

"No," Crixus returned, speaking to Nazir. "I mean why does this Hern have to die?"

"Does it matter?" Nazir asked. "The Dark Brotherhood gets a contract, we fulfill it. That's just how it goes."

"You're not going to cite the Third Tenet of the Dark Brotherhood at me?" Crixus asked.

Nazir grumbled, then cast a suspicious glare at Cicero, then made his way into the hall where he and Crixus had met before: the stone dining hall. After casting a glance at Babbette, who gestured with her little head for him to follow him, Crixus walked on after Nazir. Inside, Nazir shut the door behind them and turned to Crixus.

"I overheard you and the clown talking to each other," Nazir stated.

"So?" Crixus asked. "What is it to you?"

"Personally?" Nazir asked. "I don't like mimes, minstrels, thespians, acrobats, jugglers, troubadours or tumblers. Flutists give me a headache, and I particularly hate jesters. I'm also not fond the corpses of old women, but for the Night Mother I'll make an exception. But Astrid is the only mistress we serve: you would do well to remember that."

"I see," Crixus nodded.

"Now then," Nazir continued. "Let's go find Astrid and she'll give you your first real challenge. I hear this one is rather complicated."

"You do know that I might not be able to tend to all of them at once?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, I know," Nazir nodded. "And we'll be waiting eagerly for news of your success. But for now, go find Astrid."

"Uh-huh," Crixus nodded. He then proceeded to the door, then turned around to Nazir. "Wait a minute, corpse of old women?"

"Ask your new friend about it," Nazir stoically replied as he vanished into the shadows of the dimly-lit dining hall.

* * *

Crixus decided that he would remain in the Sanctuary overnight and be on his way by morning. There was much to accomplish and he had his duty to the Thieves Guild as well. But while the others went about their way, Crixus paced about the Sanctuary in thought. Though he could have found excuses for Beitild and Narfi's deaths, Ennodius did not seem to warrant death. He was just a paranoid Imperial miller: why did he deserve to die? The thought had never occurred to him until he was told to take on a vampire. From what he had learned from Nazir, the vampire was in hiding. For all he knew, he was just trying to stay out of everyone's way, not harming anyone. Why did he deserve to die along with an angry Nord and a beggarly Nord?

But Crixus was not permitted to spend much time alone. Cicero seemed to be hovering around him like a fly, constantly sparking up conversation or at least trying to do so. Most of his talk centered around what happened in Cheydinhal, in the old Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. From this Crixus learned that the Dark Brotherhood had fallen on hard times. The position of Keeper had only been lately instilled, what with the rapidly deteriorating state of the Night Mother.

"So," Crixus finally asked. "Just what exactly _is_ the Night Mother?"

"Oh ho ho," Cicero chuckled. "That _is_ a tale. Many rumors abound about who 'Sweet Mother' is whom those who preform the Sacrament must pray to in order to bring death to those unworthy to live. Some say she is Mephala, others say she was a member of the Thieves Guild or the Morag Tong. B-but the one that I like the most tells of her as a Dunmer who was visited in her chambers by Sithis. That story tells of her being a Morag Tong assassin, who barely escaped survival when the Akaviri Potentate was slain. As the Morag Tong were being annihilated from greater Tamriel, this Dunmer woman, living in Bravil, began to hear the voice of Sithis. One night he visited her and, over the next two years, she bore five children to Lord Sithis."

"Something came from nothing?" Crixus asked. "Yeah, I'll believe that. Go on."

"Then," Cicero chuckled. "Sithis told the woman to kill her five children, ranging from two years old to newborn. And she did it!" Cicero broke into laughter. "Much better to get the little ones before they're exposed to such a gray, dreary, silent world." Once again the jester seemed to disappear, gazing at the stone wall of the Sanctuary in deathlike silence.

"So what happened then?" Crixus asked.

"What? Oh, yes, the Night Mother!" Cicero exclaimed. "Well, the people of Bravil locked her in her house and burned it down about her ears. Killing children was something they found simply such an affront to decency that they forewent a trial and skipped straight to the execution."

"That's only the Imperial way," Crixus stated. "Guilty until proven innocent."

"But the joke was on them!" Cicero exclaimed, bursting into laughter. "No, you see? Because some busy-body was rifling through her ruins when he heard _her_ voice, speaking to him just as Cicero speaks to you now. He became the First Listener of the Dark Brotherhood."

"Right," Crixus mused. "Well, I rather liked that story. Much more interesting than all of these Nord fables. Oh, by the way, just what is the job of the Keeper?"

"The Keeper, that's me!" Cicero continued. "Well, as I was mentioning about the falling away of the Dark Brotherhood, her body began to deteriorate. So the position of Keeper was made to keep her body intact so she could continue to speak to the Listener." Once again Cicero zoned out and gazed at the floor.

"Wait a minute," Crixus spoke up. "If I remember correctly, the Akaviri Potentate was assassinated in the Second Era, almost a thousand years ago. Are you telling me that the Night Mother's body has survived for a thousand years? How is that even possible?"

"Magic," Cicero replied. "Sithis and a lot of oil. Into all of those hard to reach places."

Crixus took a step back from Cicero. In Mournhold, the locals hated necromancy. It was not uncommon to hear in the corner-clubs foul tales of necromancers resurrecting the corpses of ancestors to make love to them. Whether or not these were true was something Crixus did not concern himself with: mostly the Dunmer said this to stir up anti-necromantic prejudice. But to actually be in the presence of one was something that even Crixus could not properly stomach.

At that point, Crixus decided that he should seek out Astrid. He went back the way he had come, towards the antechamber at the beginning of the Sanctuary, hoping that she was waiting for him there. As he passed on his way there, he saw a large wooden box leaning up on its small end against the wall of the main room. For a moment he wondered what was in there, but then he heard Astrid's voice calling him.

"There you are," she greeted. "Finished talking to that blathering fool?"

"I would say so," Crixus returned.

"Good, we have work to do," Astrid continued. "You've done well for yourself. But now it's time for something else, something more important. You must go to the city of Markarth and speak with a woman named Muiri. She's the apothecary's assistant at the Hag's Cure. She's been running her mouth, something about an ex-lover she wants killed. Apparently she's already performed the Black Sacrament, so just talk to her, set up the contract and carry it out."

"Anything else?" Crixus asked.

"Just do whatever she wishes," Astrid stated. "Be professional, represent us well and get the job done. Oh, since this is your first contract, you'll get to keep whatever Muiri pays. Should be substantial, they usually are."

"Hmm," Crixus mused. "So what about all of those kills I took from Nazir? Those didn't count as contracts at all?"

"You got those from him," Astrid clarified. "This one comes from _me_, and that makes it all the more important. Now carry it out, for I shall be watching."

Crixus nodded. He had a long night of planning and preparation ahead of him, as well as things he had to do for the Empire and the Thieves Guild. He still had doubts about this vampire contract, but even more so, he found Astrid's words a little unnerving. Crixus held both Imperial and Dunmer tradition of Mournhold in high regard: unlike Nord traditions of violence, bigotry and imperialistic expansionism, Imperial tradition was one of honor, duty, loyalty to one's country and the eternal quest for knowledge. Even though Dunmer tradition included slavery, legalized assassination, aristocratic snobbery and the same kind of bigotry which he found repulsive in Nords, in Crixus' mind those 'disdainful' traditions were excusable because they were Dunmer and they hadn't tried to overthrow all of Tamriel.

In his mind, if the traditions were good, they deserved to be kept. As he had heard from Cicero, the Five Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood were good tenets: obey your superiors and be nice to your brothers and sisters. Simple rules, but they made all the difference in making the Dark Brotherhood more than just a bunch of murderers like the Companions or the Morag Tong. Astrid's words, however, her insistence on her personal value and authority over even the fabled Night Mother of the Dark Brotherhood and these worthy tenets...

Crixus began to wonder if Astrid could be trusted at all.

* * *

**(AN: Something that bothers me about the Dark Brotherhood quest-line: if Cicero is coming from Cheydinhal to Falkreath, why is he in Whiterun? Especially if you get executed if you try to cross the border. So i had it that Cicero came by boat, which is why he went south through Whiterun to Falkreath.)**

**(Oh, one think i want to ask of my readers: is Crixus competent enough for you? I mean, my brother got upset that apparently i made Crixus 'completely inept', even though he successfully killed Grelod without being detected while walking across the rafters at Honorhall Orphanage, made an impossible shot during the Loud and Clear mission, successfully sneaked past all of the guards and much more. In my previous stories, the readers were upset that Eirik was basically so awesome that no challenge was enough to be daunting [which led to me trying to up the ante, which led to everyone abandoning him for Crixus], so i want to give Crixus a challenge. He does not use the Voice to shout down everything in his way, therefore Skyrim will not be a walk in the park for him, that is intentional!)**


	39. A Remorseful Killer

**(AN: This is one of the big turning point chapters in Crixus' story. So if you've been waiting for something this big all of this time, wait no longer. Will it be the final turning point? Of course not: years of indoctrination won't go away with one encounter.)**

**(You know, _Pokemark17_, shockingly, that review doesn't tell me anything useful. I mean no shit i can't write decent characters! I spent a whole year on Eirik with _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ AND _The Dragon and the Bear_ and everyone still hated him ["he's too strong", "he's too weak", "he's too invincible", "he's a Stormcloak", "he's a boring Nord", "he's not interesting enough", "he's too whiny", "he never makes wrong decisions", "he made the wrong decision", "why doesn't he make dragons do all of his fighting for him?"]. How about _why_ do you think they're too weak?)**

* * *

**A Remorseful Killer**

Crixus left early in the morning. It would only be a few hours to reach Half-Moon Mill and Crixus chose rather to make his play during the morning than at night. Though his actions in the name of the Dark Brotherhood in the past several weeks had usually been accomplished at night, this would be the first time where he would perform a murder for the Dark Brotherhood in broad daylight.

As he had learned from the people of Mournhold, vampires were a major threat still in many parts of Tamriel. They defiled the bodies of the dead and were viewed as equal a threat and an affront to Dunmer culture and tradition as Nords or necromancers. It was whispered in Mournhold that those who wished to fight vampires should fight them in daylight if at all possible, for that was their weakness. Being naturally suspicious, Crixus examined these rumors and found no shortage of books on the subject: books which seemed to corroborate the tale of sunlight as a weakness against vampires. It seemed to anticlimactic, that a thing so strong and so powerful could be defeated so easily: he almost wished that it would have been harder, that they were not affected by the sun. It would give him a better challenge.

Nevertheless, the reality was that vampires were weak to sunlight. Crixus was going to use this to his advantage.

Crixus found Half-Moon Mill exactly where he had last seen it on his way thither. It sat at the mouth of a narrow river which flowed into the wide Lake Ilinalta at the northern end of Falkreath. There was a stone bridge which carried the road across the river on the southern side of the mill, and a smaller wooden foot-bridge over across at the northern side. On the eastern side of the river was the large mill-house with a smaller shed on the north side, while on the western side of the river was a small house which Crixus assumed belonged to the owners Herm and Hert. His plan was to bring them both outside if he could, though doing this was a lot easier said than done. His only hope was if one or both of them were working at the mill.

After getting off the road, Crixus made his way swiftly and quietly along the back-side of the mill. There was a narrow path between the mill and a shelf of rock that burst forth from the land. There was a grinding sound nearby of the saw turning against wood and the endless splashing of water upon the great mill-wheel. Crixus was grateful that he had a mill as the location of his target: the sounds would mask his approach. Slowly he came around to the ramp leading up onto the mill and quietly drew out his bow, fitting an arrow into the string. His eyes saw in the shadow of the mill-house a figure with a long robe lying upon a table near at hand.

Taking his breath in short, quiet gasps, Crixus bent back the bow and tried to make his next move. He had so easily come upon the vampire that it almost seemed right now to kill him. _He_ was the weak one who had allowed a mortal to sneak up on him thus: he was an inefficient killer. One of Crixus' personal beliefs was that only the strong were worthy enough to survive and this vampire was just another weakling he had the pleasure of putting down. All sorrow and doubt fled his mind as he pulled the bow back to full strength, a gentle wind nudging at him from behind: it would give his arrow greater haste upon firing it. There was a loud sniffing sound from under the roof of the mill and Crixus suddenly froze. Of all of the books he had read regarding vampires, there was one thing that he either did not read or had simply refused to remember.

More so than simply hearing, the vampire's sense of smell was greater than most humans, especially when standing downwind of one.

"Why are you here, stranger?" Herm asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Crixus replied.

"No," Herm returned. "I haven't killed anyone, certainly no one of yours. So why are you here?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" Crixus asked.

"If I'm to die, I would like one, yes," Herm returned.

"You let me get this close to you," Crixus stated. "You're weak. You deserve to die."

Crixus let loose his arrow, but it only struck the back post of the mill-house. Faster than the wind and before Crixus could even reach for another arrow, Herm had donned his robe and slammed Crixus down onto the ground on his back. His bow was forsaken and the vampire's cold hand was around Crixus' throat, holding with a tight, iron-strong grip. Instinctively he reached for his throat which, though Herm was not clenching tightly, was being constricted by the sheer strength behind the vampire's grip. The vampire's eyes were yellow-red, but there was no hatred or lust in them: only anger and fear. Anger that he would be targeted for no reason and fear that perhaps this old man might actually know how to kill him.

"Who's weak now?" Herm asked.

"Fine then!" Crixus gasped. "Kill me."

"I don't want to kill you," Herm returned. "I want you to get the fuck off my land. I never asked for this and I haven't gone looking for trouble: all I ask is to be left alone."

"Well, isn't that sad, then," Crixus returned. With one hand he reached up and seized his hand-axe, his trusty hatchet which his father had given him years ago, and drove it into the vampire's back. He cried out in pain and then, to Crixus' surprise, reached back with one hand and ripped the ax out of his back and then broke it with one hand.

"You fucking undead Nordic bastard!" Crixus roared. "That was my father's axe!"

"You shouldn't have used it against me," Herm returned.

"I have to try!" Crixus continued. With his other hand he pulled out a dagger and, his vision going blurry and desperation rising in the knowledge that his life was wholly in the hands of a killer, began stabbing wildly into Herm's body. Whether by sheer luck or whether the Divines that Crixus cursed for his woes during the Great War and afterwards were still watching their wayward son, Crixus stabbed somewhere close to the heart and Herm froze.

He laughed when he saw this.

"Well well," he smiled. "Isn't this interesting. It seems the sun isn't the only thing you're weak to. So what will happen if I twist the knife in your chest?"

"You cruel bastard!" Herm gasped.

"Life's cruel, why shouldn't death be?" Crixus asked. "Call for Hert."

"Oblivion take you, you fucking bastard!" Herm roared.

"Call for her," Crixus returned, his fingers gently nudging the knife to the left. Herm called out his wife's name while Crixus kept his hand on the knife.

"Now," he continued. "Take your filthy white hands off my neck."

"Or what?" asked Herm asked. "I have you at my mercy!"

"You don't want to kill me, though," Crixus stated. "Or else you would have done so already." A smile spread across his face as his right hand, empty now, made its way up to Herm's hood. He had made enough kills to know never to let on how he may or may not be feeling about his kill to his victim. Never give them hope that they might be able to negotiate or appeal to any kind of mercy.

"But I do!"

With his right hand, Crixus pulled off the vampire's hood. Herm roared in agony as smoke began billowing from his entire exposed head. In his agony, Herm leaped off Crixus and began reaching for his hood. Crixus was now back on his feet, preparing his next move to take down Herm. But at that moment, from the house across the river, a female vampire, also clad in a hood like Herm, leaped across the river towards Crixus. Only by a narrow margin was Crixus able to roll to the right. Moments after he escaped, the vampire woman's hand came down, digging deep into the earth. But Crixus was no fool when it came to fighting. Immediately he threw the hood back over Herm and placed his hands on the dagger in his chest.

"Stop!" he ordered. "Or I kill him now."

"You have no right to order us," Hert returned. "We mean you no harm."

"Like I give a fuck," Crixus retorted. "Your lives are forfeit, so one way or another, both of you are already dead. So we can do this my way or you can resist like a little b*tch..."

"Why do you say this to me?" Hert asked. "I can cave your head in with a slap of my hand."

"Is that so?" Crixus mocked. "Well, even if that weren't a blatant exaggeration, if you actually _did_ take off my head, I'd still have a good ten to thirty seconds left to twist the knife in your lover's chest. So are you willing to risk living alone forever?"

"Bullshit," Hert retorted. "You'd be dead the moment my hand was leaving your face."

"I've cut off more heads than any tribe of you Nordic barbarians," Crixus stated. "I think I know what happens when someone's head's cut off."

"I'll stove your head in before you can even blink," Hert threatened. "If you don't release him now."

"Let's try it, then," Crixus smirked.

Crixus ducked down just as, faster than he could blink, the large shape of Hert came leaping towards him, swinging and missing just mere inches above his head. But instead of twisting the blade, Crixus used his left hand to pull back Herm's hood, exposing his face to the midday sunlight. As Hert reached for the hood to save her lover from an agonizing death, Crixus pulled back her hood as well and then watched as both vampires burst into flames before his eyes. Their tortured screams rang loudly in his ears as Hert tried to place her face over Herm's face, protecting it from the sun. But they were both in for it, exposed so long to so much direct sunlight and so far away from any shadow that they could not hope to crawl away to safety.

As the heat began to grow intense, Crixus released his hold on them and stepped back, watching the two lovers burn to death before him. He rarely tortured anyone who crossed his path: even the Altmer captured during the War and the chaos with the Ninth Legion in Hammerfell afterwards were executed swiftly if their lives were forfeit. For most of the kills he made, the deaths were swift and painless. But here he watched as two people burned to death before his very eyes, writhing in profound agony as their flesh blackened, crackled and flaked off.

Had they been Nords or rebels, he would have had no problem letting them die in such a manner. Nords were a naturally violent and intolerant race and deserved nothing less, and anyone who dared rebel against the Empire also deserved nothing less. But despite all of the propaganda he had heard from back in Mournhold, these vampires did not seem like corpse-violating necromancers, engaging in all manner of debauch and excess. They were merely trying to live their lives in the best way they knew how, away from those who might be harmed by their affliction. Even worse, Crixus knew, or guessed, that vampirism was not exclusive to one race: an Imperial of Colovian or Nibenay blood could become one just as easily as a Dunmer or Nord. These two did not deserve to die.

And if they did not deserve to die, then he, Servius Crixus, by reason of killing them, was no harbinger of Imperial justice or hero-thief as he liked to believe himself. He was exactly what he saw everyone in Skyrim: a murderer. For the first time in his life, that did not sit well in his mind.

* * *

**(AN: How about this chapter? Rather short, i know, but i've been having too many long chapters so far. No, i did not write it just for you, i was actually going back over things that were about to happen in the next few chapters and i decided that Crixus needed to have a few less cruel moments. I'm sorry, i just don't write misunderstood villains like _Sam Raimi_ Sandman or Marvel Loki, and usually my heroes are just that: heroes. With Crixus, originally a foil for the chaotic good Eirik, i wanted to write what everyone loves: a douchey anti-hero.)**

**(-sigh- Someone's bound to go "but vampires don't burn up in the sun!" Actually they do, and while i might be able to excuse Serana since she is a pure-blooded Daughter of Coldharbour and has some slight solar resistance, she is not fully immune either and these two are not vampire-lords like she is. And, likely, someone's going to complain "these vampires went down too easily!" Well, my brother whined that i made Crixus too weak, even though HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE CHALLENGED, since he's not Shouting everything and everyone off of the nearest cliff, and, as i said before, these are not powerful vampires.)**


	40. Scoundrel's Folly

**(AN: In response to one review made about the Dragonborn's coming being as significant to the people of Skyrim like that of Joshua HaMessiah [original Hebrew form of Jesus the Christ], i would say that, realistically, that would mean that everyone hates the Dragonborn and wants to kill him: not far off from what i had. But seriously, my brother is of the belief that a] the Thalmor are incompetent, b] the Red Mountain did superficial damage to Vvardenfell which survived essentially intact and unchanged from how it was in _Morrowind_ and c] the White-Gold Concordant was ineffectual and the Nords merely went "cool story bro, we're gonna keep on worshiping Talos anyway." But for the sake of my fanon, the Nords who are in support of the Stormcloaks are in the minority simply because, realistically, your average Nord farmer/blacksmith/hunter/fisher isn't a political activist. They just want to live their lives unmolested, so they'll side with the law just to stay safe, meaning that they're on the side of the Empire.)**

* * *

**Scoundrel's Folly**

Crixus made good time the rest of that day, despite his misgivings. By nightfall, he had almost crossed Whiterun Hold and would be in Solitude before noon the next day. He had various things to purchase, as well as his mission for the Thieves Guild. All things considered, he would be able to finish tracking this Gulum-Ei in only three or four days, return to Riften with news of his success, then make his way west to Markarth for the task Astrid gave him. He slept very little and when he awoke, he paid attention to nothing save for the land around him and before the hooves of his horse. He had only one goal on his mind: returning to Solitude.

When at last he reached Dragon Bridge, he looked with gladness on the far-off sight of Solitude. It was the only place he had seen in Skyrim that was actually worthy being called a city in his estimation. So it was that, for the first time in a while, gladness filled his heart as he hastened up towards the road leading up to the gates of Solitude. As he reached the top, he found that the gates were open and, as before, there was a great throng of traffic going in and out of the city's market-square. He made his way thither, hoping to begin searching for Gulum-Ei at the one place he felt was the likeliest place to start: the Winking Skeever.

Into the inn he went and began looking around for any Argonians. He did not expect Elisif to treat the Argonians the same way that Ulfric Stormcloak was reported to treat them: she was, after all, a loyalist. Anyone who was loyal to the Empire was, by nature, noble and accepting of all races; or so Crixus believed as he sneered down a group of Nords talking something about some old fabled hero. Then he heard the word "treason" dropped among that group and, hiding behind a pillar of stone-masonry next to their table, listened into their conversation.

"Is it treason to want Skyrim to be safe?" one of the Nords asked.

"The Empire is law," another replied. "And to say anything contrary _is_ treasonous."

"Bah, what you say is madness," grumbled a third one.

"Why is it, eh?" the first one asked. "If the Dragonborn's to come, should it not be now?"

"Why now of all times?" asked the third one. "Why didn't 'e come during the War and save us from them elves? I say Oblivion take all this Dragonborn nonsense! He's a legend, one that deserves to be forgotten like the rest."

"But Talos..."

"You _are_ treasonous, aren't you?" the second asked.

"No, no, you misunderstand me," the first one dismissed. "God or no, Talos was a great leader who united the Empire." Crixus had to stifle a haughty snicker: oh how he wanted to chime in and name every accursed tale he had heard of Tiber Septim. From making a dark treaty with the false god Vivec, using the Numidium to subdue the elvish races, having Barenziah's child slain and taken from her arms and his betrayal of Cuhlecain, the name of Talos stank in Crixus' nostrils more than the Nord race to whom he was not bound (for, according to _The Arcturian Heresy_, which Crixus believed to be truer than the official history, Tiber Septim was born in High Rock and therefore was not a Nord, though any Dunmer born in Skyrim was, in his mind, a Dunmer still and not a Nord).

"Anyway, _he_ was Dragonborn," the first Nord continued. "So why don't the Divines send us another one?"

"Because there ain't no Divines," the third one grumbled. "If there were, why ain't they done nothing during the Great War?"

Crixus smiled: it amazed him to find such wisdom among Nords.

"I suppose you think dragons is still real, don't you?" laughed the second Nord. "Well, if that's so, why ain't there been no dragons spotted?"

"I can't say no nothing about dragons," the first one dismissed. "All I can say is what I've been told as a child: the Dragonborn is an end to all of Skyrim's foes, so why should he not come now and save us from this here bloody-awful war?"

"And I can say what _I've_ been told as a child," the third Nord stated. "I heard them stories about the Dragonborn as a child, the same as you. But I fought in the Great War and I grew up and realized that stories is nothing more than just that. Enough to keep little children in line and entertain simpletons, but not worth no much else."

"Well, all I can say is that I'm a law-abiding servant of the Empire," the second one stated. "Worship the Eight, pay me taxes, keep me head down. If anyone's gonna save us, it'll be the Imperial Legion. And if you go out in Skyrim, you'll find that quite a few people believe the way Skjorn and I do."

"Aye," the third Nord cheered.

"I can't believe that," the first one returned.

"Believe it," the second one continued. "Who's keeping the loyal folk of the west from being ravaged by them rebels in the east? It ain't Talos or old fairy tales about Nords born of dragons, it's the Imperial Legion. It's them the people of Skyrim trust, and it's them who's gonna be savin' us from any foes."

Once again Crixus was surprised to hear such loyalty and wisdom from a Nord. He turned about from his hiding place and prepared to announce himself and buy Skjorn and his wise friend a drink. But at that instant, five large city guards approached Crixus on all sides.

"Servius Crixus?" asked one of the soldiers.

"Who wants to know?" he asked.

"That's him alright," another added. "I've seen him at the Blue Palace before."

"You're coming with us," the first one demanded.

Crixus sighed. He might be able to get the jump on at least two of them, but they were large and he was only one. They would easily be able to tackle him to the floor and hold him down like a naughty boy about to be punished by his parents. Instead he chose to go with them.

* * *

The guards took Crixus to the Blue Palace and led him into a room on the bottom floor that, while as lavish as the rest of the palace, was rather empty and dimly lit. Once Crixus was safely inside, the door was locked and there were no sounds echoing from outside. He guessed that the guards were now protecting the door, keeping him from leaving prematurely. While he looked about, a three-branched candlestick was lit and the room began to glow with the added illumination. He saw a figure pick up a single candle and walk over to Crixus.

"Forgive me for this charade," Elisif greeted. "There's been some talk around the Palace about what we've been doing in my chambers. I have to keep up pretenses at all costs."

"I see," Crixus returned.

"I've had my men keep watch for you," Elisif continued. "Hoping that you would return to Solitude. Well, now, you have and I have a few things to say to you."

Crixus cleared his throat. By her voice, Elisif seemed to be rather annoyed, agitated and more or less angry. Even in the candlelight he could see her blue eyes gazing angrily at him.

"Jordis has told me of your treatment of her," Elisif began. "How you've insulted and mistreated her whenever you were together."

"Really?" Crixus asked. "You dragged me out of the Winking Skeever for _this_? Don't you have a hold to be running?"

"I've tolerated your impertinence before," Elisif stated firmly. "But now you _will_ be silent and hear what I have to say."

"And what if I don't want to hear it?" Crixus asked.

"You _will_ hear," Elisif retorted. "Or I will have my guards come in here, bind your hands and gag you until you _must_ hear. Please don't make me do that."

"As you wish," he returned.

"Now then," Elisif continued. "Jordis has also told me that your behavior has not only been directed at her, but at all Nords in Skyrim."

"So?" Crixus asked.

"In case you haven't noticed," Elisif replied, her voice rising in wrath. "_I_ am a Nord! Most everyone in Skyrim are Nords!"

"So?" Crixus continued.

"Gods above," Elisif exclaimed in disbelief. "I never would have believed it if I hadn't heard it with my own ears."

"What?" Crixus chuckled.

"You expect us to be friends, or lovers, or however," Elisif asked. "Yet you constantly call me and all of my people ignorant mongrels?"

"If you people didn't fit the mold so perfectly," Crixus added with a smug grin. "I wouldn't have to call you Nords ignorant mongrels, would I?"

"Give me one good reason," Elisif returned. "Why I should not revoke your visiting privileges."

"Look, it's complicated, alright?" Crixus asked, annoyance rising up in his voice as he spoke. "I'm a free citizen and I don't deserve to be held like this. So enough with these questions and let me go: or should I have General Tullius interfere on my behalf?"

"How dare you," Elisif replied, her voice even and controlled: yet, for some reason, Crixus found that worse than loud words and shouting. "You, who have always told me to stand up for myself, now want to reign me under Tullius' thumb when it is convenient for you?"

"Tullius doesn't have you under his thumb..." Crixus began, but was interrupted.

"And how _dare_ you," Elisif's voice rose. "Keep secrets from me, not after you were this close..." She held up her fore-finger and middle finger of her left hand a hair's breadth apart. "...from stealing my maidenhead while I was yet in mourning. _This_ close!"

Crixus rolled his eyes. "Gods above."

"What are you not telling me?" Elisif demanded.

"What do you want to know?" Crixus asked, his voice rising as he was at last cornered. "Tha-That I had a loving father and-and a beautiful mother who died giving birth to my brother, before either of us knew her? That I had a Dunmer b*tch as a stepmother who-who made our house a living hell? She-She brought her daedra worship and her tales of Nordic brutality and-and racism into our house, but my father always kept us on the right track, teaching us to be lawful and-and serve the Divines." He paused for a moment, gasping as he realized that he had been shouting and his voice was feeling harsh.

"And then..." Crixus breathed, more to himself than to anyone else. "...and then the War. All those thousands dead, and where were the Divines? Then I come here and-and everything Sedris-fucking-Ulver said was true. Every damn moment I spend here, everything she said becomes true and more real, while everything my father said becomes distant and-and contrary to what I see. I don't want to believe her, I never did: oh, how we hated that b*tch!"

"What did she do?" Elisif asked.

"Wa-What _didn't_ she do?" Crixus asked in return. "She was a witch, a daedra worshiper. She replaced my mother."

"But you just said that your mother died giving birth to your brother," Elisif stated. "Before you or your brother even knew her. How could you know that she was replaced if you didn't even know her?"

"I just _did_, okay?" Crixus shouted. "Why do I need a fucking reason for everything? And why are you even _trying_ to justify what that b*tch did to my family? To my father."

"What did she do?" Elisif repeated.

"Well, she..." stammered Crixus. "She...she poisoned my father! Yes, that's it! W-With her spells."

"Why would she do that?" Elisif asked.

"B-Because she was an evil Dunmer witch!" Crixus exclaimed. "She brought nothing but chaos into my home!"

"I'm sorry," Elisif meekly replied. "I can't possibly know what that must have been like, to lose someone loved so dearly only to have them replaced by someone poisonous. My father died last year and my mother lives as a hermit in Markarth: she never remarried."

"Count yourself fortunate, then," Crixus replied.

"Wait a minute," Elisif spoke up. "You said that your step-mother brought stories about Nord brutalities against Dunmer, and yet from your words, you seem to hate both Nords _and_ Dunmer. Do you love nothing?"

"I love the Empire," Crixus stated. "And I love peace and truth."

"Yet you seem to have taken your step-mother's words to heart," Elisif stated.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Crixus roared, pointing an accusatory finger at the Jarl. "You don't know shite, Elisif! I never learned _anything_ from that b*tch! Her words fell on deaf ears! If I have a problem with _your_ people, it's because they live up to all the horrible things history has preserved about them."

"Do _I_ live up to those horrible things?" Elisif asked. "Do the loyal Nords who fight for the Empire against Ulfric and the rebels live up to those things?"

"One person," Crixus stated. "Or even a small minority, does not pardon the misdeeds of thousands of years of hatred and conquest."

Elisif seemed stunned at first. Then she cleared her throat and assumed a regal posture. She seemed very different than the shy, naive young woman Crixus saw in the throne room of the Blue Palace many months ago. He could see that she was becoming better than she was before, and he wanted to make her stronger. Only now he felt it would not be so easy to do so again.

"Go your way," Elisif stated. "Since you've broken no laws, I cannot punish you. But I will not let you insult my people in my presence."

"As you wish," Crixus nodded, then rose to his feet and made his way to the door. He placed his hands on it, then turned around. "But know this, my lady. If it weren't for me, you would still be a spineless coward, kowtowing to your thanes' and underlings like a mewling child. You're nothing without me!"

"Get out!" Elisif shouted.

At the sound of Elisif's raised voice, the door opened and the two guards rushed into the room. One of them pinned Crixus against the wall while the other bowed to the Jarl.

"Trouble, my lady?" the guard asked.

"No, there's no trouble," Elisif replied, composing herself. "This one was just leaving."

"Shall we show 'im out?" the second guard asked.

"No need," Crixus groaned. "I know the way."

The guard released Crixus, who scowled up at the large Nord as he made his way out the door and back into the hallway. For a moment he waited, looked this way and that, then walked down the hallway a little farther and slumped down onto the bench.

Everything he had done up until this point had been justified in his mind. Nords deserved every bit of insult and injury they received from his part: they were, after all, inherently violent and barbarous and lived up to every rumor of their violence and barbarism. It was only natural that he speak the truth and call them what they were. Yet it seemed that he was on a short path to alienating himself from everyone he met in this god-forsaken land whom he genuinely cared for: Marcurio, Brelyna, Eisa and now Elisif.

But he was in doubt. For had he truly done wrong?

* * *

_Anvil, a long time ago..._

Valerius Crixus sat at the head of the table in the dining room, looking into the eyes of his two sons. Servius, the eldest, was six and his little brother Venerius was two years younger. It was his responsibility to train them now, to teach them to be better than himself. His father Aleppo had failed in that, turning Valerius into a brash, rule-breaking ne'er-do-well. Then one eventful Life's Day Festival and he met their mother Claudia. It was not long thereafter when _her_ father, Caius Maro, discovered that his child had been violated. Rather than a public execution and disowning his beloved Claudia, Caius came down upon Valerius. By hook and by crook, he beat Valerius into shape during his time serving in the Anvil city guard.

But then Claudia died giving birth to Venerius and he lost his beloved, the loving, principled and caring wife and mother of his children. He now decided that he would see his children grow into better men than he was: he would honor Claudia's memory by raising her children well.

"Now then, boys," he began. "It's time to teach you the commands of the Divines. Venerius, your older brother learned this when he was your age. But I'll remind you both that you won't forget. These are the Ten Commands of the Nine Divines. 'Above all else, be good to one another. Akatosh says: serve and obey your Emperor. Study the covenants. Worship the Nine, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests. Julianos says: know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise. Dibella says: open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love. Kynareth says: use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury.

"'Talos says: be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend the people of Tamriel. Zenithar says: work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished. Mara says: live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family. Arkay says: honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead. Stendarr says...'"

"Stendarr says," a familiar voice drawled. "Be kind and generous to the undeserving people of Tamriel."

Into the dining room there walked a tall Dunmer woman. This was Sedris Ulver, the woman Valerius Crixus had married after Claudia's death.

"Yes, children," Sedris said, turning to the boys. "Don't listen to him. The truth is that no one is worth your care or consideration except yourselves. Because the moment you accept someone's generosity and kindness, you place yourself within their power. My people learned that lesson all too well when the white Nords condescended to let us live in _their _land. Now we pay a heavy price for their kindness."

"Sedris, please," Valerius spoke up. "This is not what I..."

"Be silent, love," Sedris commanded. To the surprised eyes of the children, their father, a big strong man, suddenly quieted down and lowered his head in abject obedience.

"There, that's better," Sedris smiled, as she turned back to the children. "Now then, what shall we talk about next? Oh yes, what about..."

"Sedris, don't," Valerius returned.

"Ah, I know," she smiled. "The people of Cyrodiil, the people your father came from. They're even worse fools than my people were: they actually _let_ the white Nords make a city in their own land in Bruma. So just you two obey me or your father will throw you out of the house and send you off to Bruma. You know, the white Nords, they fuck impertinent little boys like their favorite sheep, right before they kill them."

"You wouldn't dare, you old witch!" little Servius cried.

"Why the nerve!" Sedris retorted. "Dear, your little spawn has showed me cheek. Punish him."

Valerius got up out of his chair and struck Servius across the back of the head with his open palm.

"You will show your mother the respect she deserves!" Valerius shouted curtly.

"She's not my mother!" Servius shouted.

"Again, my love!" Sedris commanded. "Hit him harder!"

"Sedris, please!" Valerius begged.

"Oh, I see," Sedris replied, her red eyes narrowing at him. "You love _him_ more than you love me? You love that insolent brat over your dear, loving wife?"

"Sedris, don't do this!"

"I am your wife!" Sedris shouted. "And I will _not_ be insulted in my own house! So strike your brat again, and harder!"

Valerius struck Servius again, this time sending him onto the floor.

"That's better," Sedris sneered. "Now, the both of you will mind yourselves. And none of this talk of the Divines: fairy tales and children's stories. The daedra are the only thing worth serving."

With that, Sedris walked out of the room with all the grace of a queen. Little Venerius was stunned in his seat, his little dark eyes welled up twice their size: shock and fear kept him from weeping or making a word or even from running. Once Sedris was out of the house, however, Valerius walked over to his son and tried to pick him back up. At first the boy swatted his father's hand away, but Valerius picked him up and held him in his arms, despite the tiny fists banging on his back and the hot tears on his shoulder.

"Shh," Valerius sighed. "It's okay. It's okay."

"I hate her, papa," Servius whined.

"No, don't say that," Valerius returned. "Remember the Divines. 'Mara says honor your parents.'"

"But she's not my mother," Servius replied. "You told me so yourself."

"Yes," Valerius nodded, his own eyes welling with tears. "But..." He sighed. "...I married Sedris, and she's your new mother now."

"No," Servius insisted. "She brings nothing but trouble to us. What about the peace and security? She's a threat to that! Why don't the Divines take her away like they did our real mother?"

"Don't say that!" Valerius sternly stated. He never hit his children of his own free will, and here was no exception. He placed Servius back into his chair, then told Venerius to go on his way. The little child waddled away while Valerius picked up an apple from a wicker basket in the center of the table.

"The Divines didn't take your mother away from us," he continued, looking little Servius dead in the eyes. "She was sick when she gave birth to your brother. The Divines didn't kill her and neither did your brother: she was sick and..." He rubbed his eyes with his finger-tips. "...and she simply didn't make it."

"But why didn't the Divines do something?" Servius asked. "Why didn't they save her?"

Valerius picked up the apple and placed it on the edge of the table, his hand still gripping it.

"You see this apple, my son?" he asked. "No matter what, it will fall off of the table. An earthquake could come and rattle it off, or an accident might happen and the table is knocked over, the apple still falls. Even if nothing were to happen and we let the table rot away with old age, the rotten remains of this apple will eventually fall to the ground once the table has rotted away. We can therefore say that it is the will of the Divines that the apple _will_ fall off this table." With that, Valerius pushed the apple off the table and caught it in his hands.

"You pushed it off the table!" Servius stated.

"That I did, my son," Valerius pointed. "But I made the will of the Divines happen. It was their will that the apple fall, all I did was hasten the doing of their will. That's the truth of things. There are two wills in this world: ours and the Divines. Often we act thinking we do our own will, but in the end, we find that our will has carried out the will of the Divines, no matter how far we stray."

* * *

Those were once comforting words to the young, naive mind of Servius Crixus. Then war shattered his faith in everything. An apple falling off a table was innocuous enough, but in the Great War, thousands upon thousands died on both sides. He saw the starved in Bravil tear each other apart over a few wagons of food, the bloated corpse of his father hanging nailed upon the trees outside of Anvil, the bodies lining the streets of the Imperial City, the ovens and bonfires that, after the ashes were pushed away, were found to be filled with tiny, underdeveloped skulls. Who's will was being carried out by this wanton loss of life? If it was the will of some other, why did the Divines do nothing to stop it? And if it were the Divines' will...

That had troubled Servius Crixus all those years. Everything his father had said seemed like a mirage, a fairy tale that faded like a candle in the dead of the night, leaving only the darkness of truth in its wake. In contrast, everything his hated step-mother Sedris had said seemed to ring truer than ever. For acting altruistically to save Hammerfell from the Dominion, he had been betrayed by the Empire he loved and sentenced to a dead-end, meaningless post. While the daedra did not cease to show their power in Crixus' life, the Divines seemed as alien and distant to him as Akavir in the Far East. The ten commands of the Nine Divines seemed meaningless, especially since everything Sedris Ulver said about Nords proved to be true.

And so Servius Crixus asked himself once again: _Have I done wrong?_

As usual, he made his way to the Winking Skeever. Over the years, forcing himself to think on these dire issues usually drove Crixus to drinking and sex. Anything to make him forget of the hurt and the horror. Down there he went, ordering a large bottle of Colovian brandy. While sitting around, eying the clientele for shapely wenches, he saw an Argonian sitting by himself in the corner. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that: Argonians usually sat off by themselves. But his mind suddenly went to his task for the Thieves Guild, one of the main reasons he was in Solitude this day. Picking up his bottle, he walked over to the table and sat down. The Argonian appeared to take little notice of him as he sipped blood-wine from his tankard.

"Gulum-Ei I presume?" Crixus asked.

The Argonian turned to him with wariness in his yellow eyes. "This is hardly the place for business, smooth-skin."

"And this isn't business," Crixus continued. "Just a friendly chat between two like-minded people...about Goldenglow Estate."

"Cut the act," the Argonian returned. "I've been around your kind long enough, I know every trick you use to get your way. Those who talk tend to end up dead, no matter how good at their trade they may be."

"Look," Crixus continued. "No need to make a scene, here. We're just having a friendly conversation, see? Just the sharing of information. Nobody else here."

"See, that's where you're wrong, smooth-skin," the Argonian stated. "My client could be watching me at this very minute."

"You seem like a clever fellow," Crixus flattered. "I'm sure you could find a way to disappear."

"It's my reputation if word gets out that I sell my employers out to whoever waves enough septims in my face."

"No money, eh?" Crixus replied. "Maybe I can find another way to make it worthwhile?"

The Argonian looked around at the people gathered here, then leaned in close to Crixus.

"You didn't hear it from me," he began. "But a buyer of mine is looking for Firebrand wine. Word on the street is that a case was brought up to the Blue Palace. If one were to...help me in my deal, it would only be fair that I do what I can to aid him in his."

"I like the way you think," Crixus smirked.

* * *

From the Winking Skeever it was a short trip back to the Blue Palace, where Crixus passed through the line and went into the antechamber with the others waiting on Jarl Elisif's pleasure. At first he considered walking up those stairs and apologizing to the Jarl for his behavior. But he was still not wholly convinced that he had done wrong: everything he said about Nords was true, and it was Elisif who was overreacting. Furthermore, his only mission here was to get the Firebrand wine. Bringing her into this seemed cheap, especially using an apology as a front. She was not to be endangered by his night-life as a thief and assassin: that was his personal hope.

"There you are, good knight!" a voice exclaimed.

Turning around, Crixus saw the eager, beaming face of the Nord maid-servant Erdi. He had barely noticed her before, merely as a trifle, an annoyance while he waited in the halls. Then suddenly it dawned upon him: he could use her to get the wine. The servants knew everything in a lord's house: surely she knew where it was and how to find it.

"Oh yes, fair maiden," Crixus replied, swallowing his pride and turning on his Colovian charm as he turned to the young woman with a smile on his face. "I've come again, seeking you."

"Oh, me?" she bubbled. "I can't scarcely believe it! Me! Of all people, me! Surely there are more important things on your mind, good sir knight."

"Nothing more important than love, sweet one," he returned.

"Oh, how I have prayed to the Divines that you felt thus about me!" gushed Erdi. "Oh love, take me away on your noble steed! Take me across Tamriel on your grand adventures!"

"Later, fairest one," Crixus interjected. "Right now, there is something that I need. It is of the utmost importance that I have this thing at once."

"Oh name it, my love!" Erdi begged. "Anything you could possibly want and I will make it yours."

"It will be difficult finding it, sweet one," Crixus continued. "But you will have earned my gratitude and my trust by your actions."

"Oh, my sweet, handsome prince, tell me what you want and it shall be yours!"

"A very priceless bottle of wine," Crixus stated.

Erdi, though seemingly dimwitted by reason of her starstruck behavior around Crixus, was nonetheless clever for her position in life. She only knew of one priceless bottle of wine in the Blue Palace, one which she was not allowed to touch.

"Oh, but my love," she said downcast. "You know that I would do anything for you. But...the wine of which you speak, it is forbidden to me. I may be beaten if I am discovered."

"It shall not be so," Crixus assured her. "As Thane of this city, I will insure that you are not punished severely if perchance you are caught."

"But...I don't know," Erdi hesitated. "I have never stolen a thing in my life."

"I can make it worth the effort," Crixus added.

"How so?" she asked.

"I can show you a glimpse of the things to come between us," Crixus stated. "You will never want for anything after you feel this."

"Oh, my love!" Erdi blushed.

"So what do you say?" he asked.

"Let me have this now," she begged. "And then I shall return with your wine."

"Oh no," Crixus interjected, raising one finger up which he used to touch her nose. "What I will do to you will leave you paralyzed with ecstasy. You will not be able to rise up from the bed for sheer..."

"Oh, my love, don't tease me!" Erdi replied.

"Oh, I'll give it to you," Crixus grinned. "But first, the wine."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Erdi was passed out on a bed in one of the guest quarters, while Crixus was making his way back to the Winking Skeever. Whether by virtue of his own prowess or because Erdi was, as Crixus assumed, a virgin and unprepared for it, she was overwhelmed with ecstasy. Crixus applauded himself for thinking ahead as far as telling her to give him the wine first. As he passed through the streets, he went over his task in his mind. So far he had only appeared to Gulum-Ei for a while with his face uncovered. His clothes, fortunately, bore no significant mark or sigil: he looked like any other hunter or adventurer resting up at the Winking Skeever after a long and arduous trek across Skyrim. As long as Gulum-Ei did not see his face after this, he would be able to blend right in and successfully shadow Gulum-Ei.

"Thank the gods, if there are any," Crixus groaned as he approached the door of the Winking Skeever. "I've been having so many fuck-ups lately, I need a success."

Making sure to hide anything that might make mark him to the Argonian's keen eyes, Crixus once again pushed the door of the Winking Skeever open and walked over to the table where Gulum-Ei sat at his table. A grin appeared on his face as he knew what had to happen next. He took his seat opposite the Argonian, who turned to him and tilted his head to the left side.

"Well?" Gulum-Ei asked.

"Here it is," Crixus stated, placing the bottle on the table.

"Very good," Gulum-Ei smiled. "To be fair, I did not believe you could actually accomplish this. I feel this deserves some additional compensation." He pulled out a pouch from his belt, placed it on the table and pushed it towards Crixus.

"Drakes?" Crixus asked. Never used septims: wouldn't even honor Tiber Septim with the name the Empire had given their coins.

"Soul-gems," the Argonian clarified. "I'm sure a resourceful smooth-skin such as yourself would find a use for them." Gulum-Ei looked this way and that, then leaned in to Crixus.

"This conversation never took place," he began. Crixus nodded. "A while ago, a woman approached me one night at the East Empire Co. warehouse. Mysterious woman, never saw her face. She threw a bag of gold into my hands, said that I was to buy Goldenglow Estate with the money."

"Did she give you her name?" Crixus asked.

Gulum-Ei shook his head. "The only other thing I know is that she was angry, very angry. Mostly at Mercer Frey, though."

"I think you know more," Crixus noted.

"That's all I can afford to say," Gulum-Ei replied evasively. "Now, if you're quite done interrogating me, I have to get back to work."

Crixus looked over at the busiest portion of the Winking Skeever's common room, where several adventurers, off-duty city guards and Imperial legionnaires, were deep into their mugs, and grinned. "Yes, I think we're done." Without another word, he rose up from Gulum-Ei's table in the alcove, then jogged the rest of the way across the room and leaped onto one of the tables.

"Friends, citizens of the Empire," he said with a loud voice. More than a few of the patrons muttered something about a dumb Colovian who couldn't hold his drink. "Let's all raise our glasses to the Imperial Legion, our staunch and truest defenders. Soon they'll be walking through the streets of Windhelm, parading Ulfric Stormcloak's head on a spike!"

The inn erupted in cheers, hands and mugs raised and quite a few 'huzzahs' from the patrons.

"Now, then," Crixus continued. "Let's have another round. On me!" He flung a small pouch from his belt onto the table and more cheers rose from the table. It was only fifty drakes: he could get that back in no time.

"A song!" a patron cried out from one of the tables. "Let's have a song, then!"

"A song?" Crixus asked. "Do you all want a song?" More cheers affirmed what they all seemed to believe: here was some lunatic off his ass drunk who they wanted to take advantage of for a lark. But Crixus wasn't drunk and he knew what he wanted, so he played the fool a little bit longer: besides, no harm in singing the praises of the Empire while he was here.

"Fine, then!" he continued. "Uh, bard! Bard, where's the bard?" A young Nord woman with silvery-blond hair held up her lute. "Do you know 'the Age of Aggression?'"

"Aye, friend!" the bard returned.

"Strike up your lute, then!" he continued. "I'll sing!"

The lute's strings echoed in its resonating body while Crixus cleared his throat, picked up a mug from one of the patrons and began singing to those around him. One by one, the other patrons, most of them even more drunk than Crixus was pretending to be, started singing or slurring along.

_We drink to our youth, to days come and gone_  
_For the Age of Aggression is just about done_  
_We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own_  
_With our blood and our steel we will take back our home_

_Down with Ulfric, the killer of kings_  
_On the day of your death we'll drink and we'll sing_

At the last verse, Crixus went silent as the others sang 'We're the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives.' He did not belong to this land, and he did not believe in living a life of violence and murder, going to some golden-roofed Fighters Guild in the sky when he died. Everything else, however, was good enough for him. Many cheers arose from the patrons as the song ended and Crixus basked in the moment of adulation.

But that was not the reason he was here. Looking towards the alcove, he saw that Gulum-Ei had left during the singing. While the patrons were occupied with a shapely barmaid passing out the drinks Crixus had bought for them, he leaped off the table and made his way towards the door. Once safely outside, he threw his hood down over his face and, despite the summer heat, bound his mouth in his scarf. With a cowl and a scarf, Gulum-Ei would never see him. He mocked and berated the Stormcloaks in his heart for not wearing such scarves as he wore: they should all be wearing scarves, he thought, especially if they were in rebellion against the Empire and did not want their identities known.

Looking down the crowded streets of Solitude, he looked for the Argonian with green scales in a red shirt. After a few moments of searching, he lowered his head until only his eyes peered over the rim of his hood and began following the Argonian who was making his way towards the great gates of the city. He kept himself back at least twenty paces from Gulum-Ei. Since there were shops and stands just outside the gates of Solitude, there was a great crowd outside the gates and Crixus was able to remain hidden for a good while, keeping the Argonian in his eyes like a mouse in the eyes of a hunting hawk.

Outside the gates of Solitude, Crixus kept Gulum-Ei just before him as the Argonian walked down the hill, towards the outer gate of the city. The crowd was enough to conceal his approach, but Crixus was not willing to press his fortune. Too close and the Argonian would see him and, likely, call the guards or even start running. Too far and he would risk losing him. Suddenly, as Gulum-Ei passed beyond the outer gate, he suddenly turned left. Quickening his pace, he made his way past the gate and saw, off to the left, a narrow foot-path worn in the side of the bluff traveling down to the bottom of the hill.

At the bottom of the path, he saw Gulum-Ei had turned left down another path at the bottom of the cliff which led towards a rather well-kept dock. Ships were harbored here in the Karthsund, the wide sound where the Karth River emptied into the Sea of Ghosts. The docks ran along the bottom of the cliff, under the giant arch of the stone upon which the Blue Palace was built and which crossed the Karthsund at its narrowest point. But these docks were separated from each other by means of a large gulf which passed into a cave which nature had bored into the side of the mountain upon which Solitude was built. At the top of the cave entrance, serving as an archway, a bridge passed over from the one end of the docks to the other end.

It was onto this bridge that Crixus walked, which offered him a perfect vantage point of the docks below. From here he could see Gulum-Ei walking down the docks towards the large cave, right underneath the bridge he was on. Since he made for a more obvious spectacle on top of the bridge, Crixus clambered down the rocks to the right of the bridge and came to hide just behind a wooden hut on the edge of the docks. Here he waited as footsteps creaked the wooden deck timbers of the dock, waves lapped against the deck posts and voices bickered back and forth in all languages known to Crixus. He did not even have to see the flags marked with a white carrack to know where he was: this was the Solitude anchorage and warehouse of the East Empire Trading Company.

* * *

Founded by one of the Emperors, they controlled the trade routes between Cyrodiil, Skyrim and Morrowind. Their main exports from the local regions included Nord mead, steel and stalhrim from the isle of Solstheim, while their most lucrative business came from the exports of plundered Dwemer artifacts, malachite, flin and the black obsidian called ebony by the Dunmer. Due to the Red Mountain, most of their Morrowind business had died off, with many Dwemer sites on Vvardenfell lost to the ash and molten rock, the Skaal of Solstheim stopping their trade of stalhrim and the ebony mines on Solstheim drying up. Furthermore, the Great War had caused many petty lords and wealthy merchants to quickly gain capital and power, which undermined the authority and power of the government-sanctioned East Empire Company. Now most of the influential members of the East Empire Trading Company were now, in secret or in public, members of the Merchants Guild of Cyrodiil: their interests, however, were often at odds with those of the officials of the company.

Crixus knew nothing of the Merchants Guild or of what had transpired among the East Empire Trading Company. Pectis always had a better handle on communicating with the merchants who still traded with Mournhold. But for himself, his only business here was Gulum-Ei, who he was now watching intently as he passed by his hiding place. Behind him a group of men carrying a large wooden crate came walking by, and as they passed by the place, Crixus swiftly fell in line behind them. No sooner was he inside the cavernous warehouse but he leaped to the left and climbed up onto several large crates, keeping well out of sight.

He grinned, proud of his skill. No one had seen him approach and he was now safely hidden away from view. It seemed too much to hope that he could successfully trail Gulum-Ei through the warehouse without being spotted, but he had come this far. Carefully tip-toeing across the crates, he followed the Argonian through the dimly-lit, stuffy warehouse. Seeing a small structure at the far end of the cavern, Crixus made his way there just as Gulum-Ei made his way out. Inside he saw nothing of great value aside from a map marked with the tiny white carrack at the bottom right-hand corner. This he rolled up and pocketed in his bosom as he followed Gulum-Ei into what appeared to be a cave tunnel in the side of the mountain.

Into the dark cave passed Crixus, moving like a ghost from shadow to shadow. The torches of guards inside the cavern lit the tunnel here and there, giving him only sufficient light to continue to trail Gulum-Ei but not enough for the guards to notice him. If he were in a better place, he would have laughed: people should not even bother with guards and patrols, thought he, if he could pass them by so easily. At last he felt like his old self; any recent mistakes seemed like a shadow of the past, not worth bringing up. Whether in such a mind or because he deemed that now was the time to make his presence known, he drew a knife and threw it at the shape of the Argonian, pinning him against a large crate just up ahead.

"Who's there?" he heard Gulum-Ei mutter into the darkness. "P-Please, don't hurt me! I have a family to support!"

"Perhaps I should just kill you now," Crixus muttered, walking up to the pinned Argonian from out of the darkness. "And spare them the trouble of watching you die of old age."

"You!" gasped Gulum-Ei, a haughty tone in his voice. "You won't kill me. You Thieves Guild types don't operate like that."

"Maybe," Crixus returned. "Maybe Mercer's given me new orders. Maybe your life isn't as valuable to them as you think."

"Bullshit!" Gulum-Ei gasped. "I'm their only connection to the East Empire Company. Without me, they'll lose a significant source of racketed capital."

"Correction," Crixus stated. "You _were_ their only connection. Now that an alternate means of extortion have been gained, the Thieves Guild has no further need of you."

"Wait, wait wait wait!" begged Gulum-Ei. "I can be useful! More useful alive than dead at any rate, eh? You always need fences, right? Someone who can take hot goods off your hands. Maybe we can cut a deal?"

"Maybe I'm listening," Crixus continued.

"All I ask," Gulum-Ei offered. "Is protection as a fence of the Thieves Guild."

"And what will you give us in return?" Crixus asked.

"The name," Gulum-Ei whispered fearfully. "The name of the one you've been searching for. The name of the one who had me buy Goldenglow Estate, the one with an axe to grind against Mercer Frey. Karliah. The one you seek is called Karliah."

"Never heard of them," Crixus returned.

"Never?" Gulum-Ei rasped in quiet laughter. "You mean Mercer never told you about her?"

"Her?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Gulum-Ei nodded. "She was a member of the Thieves Guild, but then something happened and she disappeared. Word on the street is that she killed Gallus, the former Master of the Thieves Guild, and now it seems she's set her eyes on Mercer Frey."

"And where is she now?"

"'Where the end began,'" quoth Gulum-Ei.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Crixus, who was growing tired of the endless questions and vague answers, demanded.

"I don't know," Gulum-Ei shook his head. "Look, I didn't even know it was Karliah until we talked about Goldenglow. She never told me where I could find her, only that she was 'where the end began.' I never wanted to get entangled in any of this! You gotta believe me!"

Crixus removed his dagger from Gulum-Ei's shirt, then disappeared once again into the darkness. He had a long journey back into enemy territory ahead of him, one that would return him to his friends in the Thieves Guild, to the Black-Briar family, to Mercer Frey and 'where the end began.'

* * *

**(AN: This chapter turned out to be longer than i expected, but i needed to give Crixus another reason to start changing his ways...somewhat. Also, please pardon the flash-back. Valerius Crixus' "object lesson" was not what I would have written: that was what my brother wrote. I must apologize as well for that statement about people not bothering with guards: my brother insisted that i make Crixus like Wonder Woman [ie. all powerful, always successful, always in the right with no moral dilemma and with no significant weaknesses]. Also, sorry that this chapter took so long to come out. Aside from length, i've been sick off my ass and have had little desire to do much of anything.)  
**

**(So, did any of you hear the news? Bethesda finally got their shit together and are bringing out, in two years, _Elder Scrolls VI: Argonia_. I'm a little nervous as to what outcome they will give to the events of Skyrim: likely it will be with the Empire winning the war because, as i have seen online, none of the mainstream fans seem to like the Stormcloaks. My brother, typically, wants a _Morrowind_-esque world where there is nothing familiar or even human in Black Marsh and he can ride on a rainbow-crapping wamma-su with his winged Argonian collecting gum-drops in the mushroom forests of Gideon! But what do you all think?)**


	41. Speaking With Silence

**(AN: While i'm glad that there are still people reviewing my stories, i would have to ask to not be so vague. "Some characterizations I didn't like" doesn't say much. What characterizations did you not like? Was it that i made the Empire the bad guys? Nobody seemed to mind that in _Morrowind_. Was it Idolaf? I felt that my depiction of him was very accurate; after all, he's the one who forsook his boyhood friend because the Empire said so, tows his father's line about Talos-worshipers being "heathens" [not just outlaws, heathens. Let that sink in] and doesn't care about raising his son Lars, letting him be bullied by Braith while he's busy mocking the Grey-Manes. I don't see how that was off-the-mark. Are you upset that i made non-Nords racists? _Morrowind_ made Dunmer racist and slave-owners, but apparently that was okay.)**

* * *

**Speaking With Silence**

Servius Crixus made swift his way back to Riften. Only a day or more of rest at Solitude before heading off again was all he needed. Though he had pushed himself to ungodly limits after receiving the letter from the Dark Brotherhood - whose tasks he would soon have to undertake - he knew his limits and knew how far he could push himself physically before he gave out. That was still quite a ways away and, after his success in the Brinewater Grotto beneath Solitude, he felt invincible. No guard could spot him sneaking in the shadows, no prey could evade him and, after the Goldenglow job, no target was too tough for his bow not to reach. So what that he had lost Elisif: there were plenty of Colovian wenches to warm his bed at night. No Nord could stand against him, no wind could daunt him and no distance felt too far: in fact, in Crixus' mind, the rumors of Skyrim being one of the most dangerous places in Tamriel seemed as faulty as his father's idea of the gods. Morrowind and Black Marsh were where the danger were.

With the sun high and the days ahead of him clear and sunny, Servius Crixus felt invincible as he made his way back to Riften.

After three days on the open road, Crixus at last arrived in Riften early in the morning of the nineteenth of Second Seed. Though he was still feeling on top of the world, he needed breakfast. Immediately he went to the Bee and Barb and purchased for himself beer, cheese and some roasted pork.

"The larder's fresh out of pork, I'm afraid," the Argonian Kee-Rava stated, though her tone was hardly apologetic, considering her last altercation with Crixus.

"By the Wabbajack!" Crixus exclaimed. "How can you run out of pork?"

"That gentleman," Kee-Rava stated, pointing to one table. "Purchased the last of our stock."

Crixus turned and saw a large, bald man in rich clothes with his face buried in a mountain of roasted bacon. Even the smell was enough to drive Crixus mad that this fat prick had robbed him of such a delicacy. He walked towards the man at first, then suddenly ducked as a half-eaten shank of pork came flying at him. Without so much as an 'excuse me', the fat man jerked his head back, not even fully turning it around, and mumbled through a mouth-load of food:

"Do pick that up, my good man."

"I'm not your servant, sirrah!" Crixus retorted, approaching the table.

"Hmm?" the fat one asked. "I was under the impression that all Nords were here to serve the Empire."

"I'm no Nord!" Crixus angrily stated.

"Oh?" chortled the rich man until he burst into fits of violent choking. One round fist pounded against his overly-large stomach and he ceased coughing, after which he drank from his flagon: there was no mead, only milk.

"This is Skyrim, isn't it?" he asked. "Everyone here's a Nord. I didn't expect to find a proper person in _this_ dung-heap, mind you. Solitude yes, but not here."

"You're not from around here, are you?" Crixus asked just as the large Imperial shoved another five strips of bacon into his mouth.

"Gods, no!" he exclaimed, spraying wet chunks of bacon all over Crixus' face. "I'm from Leyawiin. Wouldn't dream of being from such an ungodly place as Skyrim. I'd think I'd kill myself if that stain were mine, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, of course," Crixus added. "I've not met a single person here who's given lie to the normal word regarding Nords."

"And what word is that?" asked the large man as he dove into his plate yet again.

"That they're big, dumb, brutish and savage," Crixus stated. "They hate anyone or anything that is not like them, only think about drinking mead when they're not killing someone..."

At this, Crixus' guest let out a very loud belch, without closing his mouth or pardoning himself.

"Precisely," he stated authoritatively. "These ignorant savages have no class or refinement, not like us Imperials. Gods preserve me while I'm here for the wedding. I wouldn't be in Skyrim otherwise. Why the Legion doesn't just dash it all and send every last Nord with Talos on his lips to Oblivion is beyond me!"

"I like the way you think," Crixus stated. "Now, then. I must be going. Finally glad to meet someone who here who isn't as dumb as the locals." He patted the fat man on the shoulder.

"Oh, the pleasure is all...why, don't touch me, you oafish rogue!"

Crixus backed away, then made his way out of the Bee and Barb and towards the Temple of Mara.

* * *

Mara, goddess of love. Of the eight Divines legally permitted worship by the Empire, due to the White-Gold Concordant, Crixus hated her the most. She demanded that people love and honor their parents, yet she allowed Claudia Crixus to die and Sedris Ulver to remain and torment his family. It was her fault, he held, that his youth was one of hardship and trouble: for surely she _should_ have done something about that Dunmer b*tch and her ways. But even more so, she required compassion of the faithful. Compassion was a weakness unto death, Crixus held. He saw the lengths of the compassion of the Nords lately during his encounters with the Stormcloaks, as well as the compassion of the Aldmeri Dominion in the millions they slaughtered during the Great War. Compassion was death and his enemies, and the Empire's enemies, deserved no compassion, no mercy or forbearance.

As he could not rightfully burn the eye-sore down, Crixus made his way to the side of the building, just near the cemetery, pulled his pants open and relieved himself against the wall of the Temple. Let the goddess of love see what he thought of her and her impotence.

His act of defiance done, Crixus made his way into the secret entrance to the Thieves Guild lair beneath the streets of Riften. He laughed at the foolishness of Jarl Laila the Law-giver and her lackeys the guards, who let the Thieves Guild run their business right beneath their noses. For their stupidity, they deserved to be robbed blind and left in rags. Anyone that foolish deserved to be shot in the back and left for dead.

As he looked around the Cistern beneath Riften for Mercer Frey, he saw Delvin Mallory sitting at a desk, making notes in a ledger. Upon notice, he approached the Breton and asked him about his journeys.

"Business on Solstheim, what little there is, belongs to us," Delvin stated. "I have a rather close acquaintance who's made sure that our interests will be kept first and foremost in House Redoran."

"And you trust him?" Crixus asked.

"I trust the Dunmer of House Redoran to know the value of money," Delvin replied. "Like Brynjolf always says: all races and nations run on money. With their ebony mine dried up, they will need all the help they can get. That's where we come in."

"You want us to help them find new sources of ebony?" Crixus scoffed. "We're thieves, not miners."

"Finding new mining sources will be up to House Redoran," Delvin stated. "But we will ensure that the Thieves Guild have some measure of influence in Morrowind. Now then, Brynjolf's been telling me about how things are going around here. Giving the old curse the middle finger, are you?"

"That well, eh?" Crixus chuckled.

"Brynjolf has been singing your praises so much," Delvin jested. "I thought he had left Tonilla and taken _you_ to be his lover."

"It was not all my doing," Crixus replied with a grin. "You simply cannot keep good men from doing honest work."

Delvin threw back his head in laughter. "Never heard that one before. I like it. Oh, speaking of you, I did find your little note here." He plucked from his leather jacket the list of bards for Jarl Igmund's court.

"Any luck?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, I think I could recreate this Yngvar's handwriting for your list," Delvin replied. "Though I've noticed that most of these names here have a little bit of a note to go with 'em. Look here: under the name Skjarn. 'Headstrong, large personality but asking a very high price.' Another here for Fjona. 'Mobile, skilled bards-woman but otherwise very distant.'"

"Looks like a bunch of Nords," Crixus chuckled.

"Come on, now," Delvin dismissed. "What have you got against Nords, eh? Brynjolf's a Nord, Vipir's a Nord, the Black-Briars are Nords. They're smart enough for the work they do."

"Do I need a fucking reason for everything?" Crixus asked. "Gods, nobody asks me why I have to wipe my arse after I shite. Why am I harassed about these stupid-fucking Nords? None of the ones I've met are any good, and the few who aren't as bad as the others hardly matter. I'm here to serve the Thieves Guild, nothing more. So can we stop with these questions?"

"If you insist," Delvin replied. "It ain't my business what you do or who you don't love, just don't make it _our_ business. Now, since both of these candidates seem to have more than a few flaws, what do you want written here?"

"Oh, I want him to sing Asteria's praises," Crixus replied. "She's the bard in question. Say something like; 'the hold is abuzz over this one.' Make sure you say something about how she's close to Markarth and affordable. Should be good enough."

"Very well," Delvin replied. "I'll see what I can do. Oh, by the way, you haven't found anything..." He winked. "...unique, have you?"

"As a matter of fact," Crixus replied with a grin. "I have." He handed over the map he lifted from the East Empire Trading Company office. Suddenly at that moment he heard clapping directly behind him. Turning around, he saw Mercer standing where, when Crixus last looked, no one was there.

"Very good," Mercer stated in a low voice. "I see you've managed to get into the East Empire Company warehouse in Solitude. I take it you found our informant?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Crixus asked. "You seem to have eyes and ears everywhere, knowing my business before I tell it to you."

Mercer chuckled. "Offering Gulum-Ei protection is a small price to pay for a fence in Haafingar. Thanks to you, we now have seeds planted from one end of Skyrim to the other. It won't be long before we're back to our former glory." He then leaned in to Crixus, smothering him with the thick scent of Colovian tobacco on his breath.

"I need a name," he stated in his low, grumbling voice. "And I think this should be between us."

"Karliah," Crixus replied.

Mercer's expression was unreadable, even for Crixus who prized himself on knowing his enemies by little more than a glance.

"You didn't happen to get a location, did you?" he asked, almost expecting to hear that Crixus had failed in this.

"'Where the end began,'" quoth Crixus. "Whatever the fuck that means."

"Uh-huh," Mercer nodded. "Snow Veil Sanctum."

"Where is that?"

"North," Mercer replied. "On the icy bay just north of Windhelm. A day's journey from here, I'd say. Since Karliah's managed to drag you into our problems, I say you deserve to mete justice upon her once we find her."

"Justice?" Crixus asked.

"Yes," Mercer began with a gentle, pensive nod, gazing at the water in the cistern aqueducts beneath the floor around them. "It was about two years after the Great War ended. The Thieves Guild were at the top of their game: war tends to leave many opportunities open for wise men with a nose for money. But it also gives opportunity for looters and traitors. As power shifts, it's easy to take what one wants and disappear without any reprisals. Our old guild master, Gallus Desidenius, was murdered at this Snow Veil Sanctum by a Dunmer named Karliah. She vanished ever since and the Guild has had nothing but bad luck trying to catch her."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"Gallus was a great man," Mercer stated. "His death brought about a great collapse among the Thieves Guild, one that we have not yet been able to repair or rectify." He grinned as he turned to Crixus. "Until you came. Because of that, you also have the honor of bringing that b*tch to justice as we go to Snow Veil Sanctum after her."

"You mean to kill her, don't you?" Crixus inquired. "I thought the Thieves Guild doesn't kill..."

"Exceptions can be made," Mercer glowered. "Especially regarding traitors. In Karliah's case, she's already broken the rules by killing Gallus. She is not one of us and should not be judged as one of us. Now get your things together. We have a long journey ahead of us."

* * *

_The Thalmor Embassy in the Imperial City, Cyrodiil. 17th day of Second Seed, Fourth Era 201. Two days ago._

Andalfin was impatient, and with good reason. It had been a simple enough mission: find Talos-worshipers in Ivarstead. Ondolemar had even informed him that the Imperial camp garrison nearby would be of assistance: they would assist or the Dominion would hear of it. Typically, the Imperial types were such spineless weaklings, as most humans were in Andalfin's estimation and that of his kin, that they usually cowed to such threats from the Thalmor and acquiesced.

But then the assassin had intervened. He reported his findings to Ondolemar, who kept him contained in Markarth while he sent a swift raven to Elenwen. Crude, of course, but there were too many Nords about to attempt any magical means of communication. It always bothered both Ondolemar, the head Thalmor justicar, and Andalfin, a mere underling, how much they had to hide around these weak, backwards white-skinned humans. They could almost feel their bodies being befouled by merely being around them. Oh praise Auriel when the Reckoning shall come!

As if waiting two days for a reply wasn't bad enough, when a reply finally came, Ondolemar told Andalfin that he was to return to Cyrodiil and speak to the one called the High Justicar. Andalfin had never met him, though he had a guess as to who this could be. Elenwen was the Thalmor ambassador, who endured the presence of humans the most in order to promote the interests of the Thalmor in conquered Skyrim (let the Empire think they won the First War). Lady Arannelya had returned to Alinor, the Summerset Isles, for an extended leave of absence. Ancano was keeping an eye on the mages in Winterhold - it still amused both of them to think of humans using magicka - and Ondolemar was leading the war of attrition against the Empire and its Talos-worshiping Nord population: the people of Cyrodiil had been sensible enough to give up the worship at the first demand without any complaint.

There could be only one other significant Thalmor player still active in mainland Tamriel who could possibly claim the title of High Justicar. It would be before this mer that Andalfin would give his report.

The Thalmor embassy in Cyrodiil was very similar to the one in Skyrim in architecture and style. The people of Haafingar always had closer ties to the Empire of Cyrodiil and their architecture, stolen from elves like everything else humanity could possibly claim as 'their own', was heavily influenced by the latest trends in the heartland. The anteroom before the High Justicar's office was very large, with a vaulted ceiling similar to one of the chapels of the Imperial Cult of the Eight Divines. Every footstep echoed and reverberated in the massive hall: that was, after all, the design of the architect who built these embassies. Every secret was to be known, every whisper by the weak humans who came here was to be paid note and recorded. At the far end of the great vaulted hall was a door, whose path thither was covered by a luxurious black carpet. While this custom was one usually held among the human kingdoms, it was once held among the Ayleids that if a king walked upon a carpet or rug, they were above the others who had to walk on the ground: they were closer to their Ancestors, the Aedra, than the rest, and so deserved respect and admiration. Only Thalmor were allowed on the carpet, and, though crude, Andalfin, who now stood at the end of the carpet, before the iron-bound doors of the High Justicar's office, could appreciate the elevation above the common humans it gave to him and his race.

"The High Justicar will see you now," one of the guards stoically announced.

Andalfin breathed in, straightened his posture and strode forward as the guards opened the doors. Inside the office, there were, of course, the black banner of the Aldmeri Dominion behind the desk, but the lights were low and he could not see the face of the one seated behind the desk. On the desk he saw a porcelain tea-pot steaming with fresh tea and cups upon a golden plate. There was also a stunted shrub potted on one end of the desk.

"My lord?" Andalfin asked. "I come with urgent news from Skyrim. It seems our situation has become most dire."

There was a low, soft chuckle from the darkness. Then a voice spoke: just as soft as the laugh, but of a deep timbre. To the weak-minded humans, the voice bespoke of power, mystery, quiet menace, strength and wisdom. To Andalfin, it was a voice to which he was required to show respect.

"What trouble could a few human savages cause for us?" he asked.

"It is not the local Nords, nor the Imperial Legion, that gives me cause, my lord," Andalfin replied. "There was...well, my company attacked the town of Ivarstead, we carried out our orders...but there was..."

"Your tale does not interest me," the voice replied aloofly. "Begone from my sight."

"It was the Dark Brotherhood!" exclaimed Andalfin, fearing that the High Justicar would punish him for wasting his time.

Silence filled the office for a brief moment, after which there was the soft clanking of porcelain upon porcelain. Then the figure rose, tall even among Altmer, and stepped out into the light. Even if Andalfin did not prefer the company of male mer over female mer, preferably those closely related to him in order to keep the blood-lines of his family, as it was, untainted, he would have found the narrow, sallow face and squinting eyes of Thelgil, High Justicar of the Thalmor in Cyrodiil, to be beautiful and alluring.

"What did you say?" the High Justicar asked.

"There was a Dark Brotherhood assassin in Ivarstead," Andalfin clarified. Thelgil held him under his piercing gaze for a while, speaking no words and betraying no sign of displeasure or alarm.

"M-My lord," stammered Andalfin: he never stammered in the presence of others, though. "What shall you do?"

"We must proceed with the utmost caution," Thelgil replied menacingly. "Long have the Servants of Sithis kept us from our right. We cannot allow this threat, no matter how small, to go unnoticed."

"What shall we do, my lord?" asked Andalfin.

Thelgil turned about, a grin on his face as he spoke four words which made absolutely no sense to Andalfin. The Thalmor were the power in Tamriel: why should they have to go to any humans for help? Nevertheless, Thelgil spoke with such severity and quiet determination that Andalfin was ready to follow him to Oblivion and back.

"Visit the Elder Council."

* * *

The rest of that day was spent with Mercer Frey, riding north from Riften into the marshlands and the forests of the eastern hold. The violently green aspens of the Rift were replaced by the dull evergreens upon the western slopes of the Velothi Mountains and the distant haze of the marshland. Crixus did not pay much attention to the landscape, only to Mercer's horse. To him, all of Skyrim was as dull, grey and colorless as Eastmarch or Winterhold. His mind burst with fresh memories of his childhood in the vibrantly green woods and fields outside of Anvil, where he and his childhood friend - Crixus wondered for a moment if he was still alive and had been the one Marcurio had tried to introduce him to in the Four Shields tavern - would climb trees, play as knights with wooden swords or go mischief-making with the travelers who came to the Gold Coast from the eastern counties.

At evening, they made a small camp in a glade of pine trees. They had enough food for the journey and its return, but Mercer seemed to be on edge every moment, casting his eye upon every shadow that was cast by the light of their little fire and turning his head towards every noise.

"You seem a little on edge," Crixus noted.

"With good reason," Mercer replied. "It's been decades since anyone in the Thieves Guild heard of Karliah. Her actions against us lately prove that she knows what she's doing and she's ready to take action." He sighed grimly, looking at the dancing flames. "I had hoped our paths would not cross, but if not, then we must deal with her before she disappears again."

Crixus bit off a strip of dried traveler's jerky, then turned to Mercer. "There's something you're not telling me."

"Is that so?" Mercer evaded.

"You brought me along," Crixus continued. "If I'm to follow your orders, shouldn't I know what we're up against?"

Mercer scoffed. "Normally, I'd cuff you on the ears for such impertinence. What you need to understand, Crixus, is that _I'm_ in charge of the Thieves Guild. Me, not you! You obey my word without discussion or debate." He then turned away from the fire.

"But, in this case," he continued. "I might as well let you know. As I said, Karliah killed Gallus in cold blood: she betrayed the Guild and destroyed everything we stood for. After her deeds were brought to light, we spent months tracking her down, trying to bring her to justice. But she simply...vanished."

"Any idea why she has returned?" Crixus asked.

"If you'll pardon the expression," Mercer said with a grim smile. "We were as thick as thieves, Karliah and I. I worked with her on every heist, every job, every sweep and burglary. We watched each other's backs, to the point where we could read the tone of each other's voices, predict our very moves, both personally as well as professionally. I know her techniques, her skills, and she knows that I know that. If she succeeds in killing me, there's nobody in all of Tamriel that could possibly catch her." He sighed. "We're too damn close now, I can't let her slip through my fingers again."

"I understand," Crixus nodded.

"Get some sleep," Mercer stated as he wrapped a cloak around his leather Thieves Guild gear. "You look like you need it. I need you awake and alert when we reach Snow Veil Sanctum."

"And you?" Crixus asked.

"I'll keep watch," Mercer replied. "Oblivion knows I've never been able to sleep soundly since Karliah betrayed us."

* * *

Crixus was awake by the time Mercer rose. They ate a swift breakfast, hid any trace of their fire, then mounted up and went on their way. The marshlands swiftly gave way to deep drifts filled with snow, even in the summer months. By midday, they stood upon a hill that overlooked the great stone city of Windhelm. To Crixus, it was an unassuming pile of rocks nestled against a mountain: surely such a mighty and allegedly well-renown city should have ruins surrounding its walls, just as the old cities in Cyrodiil were dotted with ancient Ayleid ruins in the wilds and, sometimes, just outside the walls. That stone-masons frequently cleared away rubble from destroyed or ruined cities and built atop them never entered into Crixus' mind: the lack of ruins outside of Windhelm made him doubt that it was as ancient as purported to be.

At the bottom of the hill, where the White River, choked with ice, met the Sea of Ghosts, they sold their horses at the Windhelm stables, then chartered a boat to take them across the river. Once done, they carried on by foot, through a land that was all together empty of life: only snow and ice met their gaze. Keeping the endless roar of the sea against the shore in the right ear, they walked on for hours.

When the sun began to disappear behind the tall crown of Mount Anthor to the west, the two came upon a place nestled on a shelf of ice where there were ruins buried in the snow, ancient ruins that had once been a city in the time of the Atmorans but was now lost to the snow and the sea-winds. At the sight of it, Mercer Frey ran off towards it. Crixus, quite encumbered by the snow and cold, hurried on as best he could in the deep snow. Suddenly there was a loud cry and Crixus redoubled his efforts to reach the ruins. When he reached the ruins, he saw Mercer approach with a Dwemer knife in his hand which he was wiping on what looked like a frozen blanket.

"What was that?" Crixus asked.

"Karliah's definitely here," Mercer grimly replied.

"Did you find her?" he asked again.

"No," Mercer shook his head, though a wicked grin was on his face. "But we've cornered her for sure. She won't be escaping from us, not by horse at least."

Mercer then led Crixus into what appeared to be a domed room in its better days, though most of the room was filled with snow. There must have also been higher levels, for there was a door up here at the top of the dome. Mercer approached the door and pushed gently against it.

"Locked," Mercer mused aloud. "They say these ancient Nordic burial mounds are sometimes impregnable." He chuckled as he knelt down before it and pulled something out of his pocket which Crixus did not see, busy as he was looking around them.

"Hah!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Quite simple, really. Don't know what all the fuss is about." With that he stood up and pushed upon the doors, which swung backwards with a groaning sound of stone against stone. Mercer then removed a few pieces of wood they had brought from their camp-site and, with his flint and tinder, lit up two makeshift torches.

"Lead the way," Mercer ordered.

"Me?" Crixus asked. "I thought you were the Guild-Master, and this Karliah business is personal."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mercer retorted, his voice taking a threatening tone as he strode towards Crixus. "I was under the impression that _I'm_ in charge, not you! The more time we waste here, the closer Karliah comes to slipping away. So take the lead, I'll cover your rear. Is that understood?"

Crixus nodded, though he still felt that this was foolish.

"Good," Mercer replied, his face still set like steel. "But keep your eyes open. Karliah's as sharp as a blade: it's more than likely she's reset all the traps inside here and the last thing I need is you warning her of our presence by blindly blundering into a trap."

Despite his misgivings, Crixus led the way into the tomb. Like with Saarthal, the place was made of stone, most of which seemed to have survived the centuries. Several places had collapsed, but they were able to walk here without bending over too much. They set off no traps, even though Mercer was keen on pointing out where they were. After an hour or so underground, they came to a place with a wide room and a heavy stench of dry, moldy rot. There was nothing on the ground save for a few gold coins that predated the septim - doubtless worth double their usual value. But it was on the walls, or rather in them, where the real threat lay. Holding his torch up, Mercer called Crixus over in a whisper which, despite being whispered, echoed on the walls.

"Over here," he hissed.

Crixus followed him to what appeared to be a niche cut into the solid rock wall. He had seen many such niches in this room: some of them webbed over, some of them collapsed, some of them empty and some of them filled with something that even Crixus would not touch. But in this niche there was something that had once been a body: now it was dried and decayed into a gray, lifeless shell, with bony hands folded upon the bent sword upon its breast.

"Draugr," Mercer stated. "That's what the smell is. Don't make too much noise, or they'll awaken."

"I've dealt with draugr before," Crixus confidently replied. "They burn like dry kindling."

"We don't have the fire to waste," Mercer replied.

"Have we not?" Crixus chuckled, waving his torch.

"And what happens when your torch is burned out or discarded in your fight with a draugr, huh?" Mercer asked. "We still have a long way to go, so don't do anything stupid like that. Now get back in front and lead on."

Crixus went on ahead, his torch aloft, though his mind was full of the phrase 'leading from behind.' Emperor Titus Mede II never led from behind when he led the charge to retake the Imperial City at the Battle of the Red Ring, which he was either cursed or privileged to have witnessed firsthand. General Tullius didn't lead the charge against Ulfric Stormcloak because he was the military governor: he was too important to die by some straw arrow or axe-blade. In contrast, he saw Ulfric as a despicable cod-piece that cowed behind the stone walls of Windhelm instead of leading the charge as his Nordic faith held. One rule for the Empire, and one rule for their enemies: that was the way Crixus saw it, and it was good in his eyes. It was not fair, but Crixus did not care about fairness, at least in regard to his enemies. What the Empire said was just and fair was just and fair, everyone else be damned.

They carried on in silence, passing through one room filled with draugr interred in their stone niches, with bone-chimes dangling from the ceiling. Here they had to pick their way carefully through the chimes, else the clanging would awaken the draugr. On and on they walked in silence, their footsteps the only sounds upon the floor. They came to one room where there was light glowing from four candles: it illuminated the room and sent the shadows dancing, for the candles were hid within four pots hanging by cords from the ceiling. In the center of the room there was a short stone pillar, upon which something glistened in the candlelight.

"Look to the ground," Mercer stated.

The ground below seemed to flicker in the light of the torches. Crixus leaned in and smelt the floor, then suddenly balked back, holding the torch as high as his arm could reach.

"Oil," Crixus gasped. "The ground's covered with it."

"A fire trap," Mercer mused. "One wrong move and we're incinerated."

"I bet taking that gold swag will set it off," Crixus noted.

"Let's be on our way, then," Mercer stated.

"No no no," Crixus dismissed. "Delvin might like that. I think I'll take it."

"How?" Mercer asked. "Even I would have trouble taking that."

"We don't have anything of equal weight, do we?" Crixus asked. "Something to switch it with just at the right moment."

"We don't have time for this!" hissed Mercer. "Now let's get out of here and get on with what needs..."

"I have it," Crixus smiled. Thrusting his torch into Mercer's hand before he could protest, Crixus drew out his bow and fitted an arrow into the string. With one whizzing shot, he severed the cord that held one of the candle-pots above the oil. It crashed onto the floor and there was a sudden blaze as the floor burst into flame.

"Dammit, Crixus!" Mercer returned. "You'll wake the draugr!"

"That's the idea," Crixus stated as he let off another arrow, taking down the second clay-hooded candle. He then shot off another one and sent it crashing to the floor. There was now such fire upon the floor that the heat was almost unbearable even at this distance. Suddenly there was a roar from behind. Crixus stowed away his bow and, without so much as another word, leaped across the flame-covered room and picked up the golden thing from off its pillar, then ran the rest of the way across as his trousers caught fire from the heat. He collapsed to the ground and writhed about, slapping his burning pants until the flames went out, then turned back to Mercer.

"Come on, then," he said. "Jump!"

"It's too far to jump, asshole!" Mercer retorted. "And thanks to you, you've risen the draugr, and trapped me on this side with them."

"Stop b*tching and jump!" Crixus shouted. "You'll see things better from over here."

Mercer looked back at the dark passage behind them: in the light of the fire, the draugr could be seen clawing their way towards them. With two torches in hand and a roar on his lips, Mercer Frey bounded across the room and collapsed on the floor, gasping at the nearness of the escape.

"Great going, asshole," Mercer stated. "Now Karliah knows we're here for sure."

"Look behind us, though," Crixus returned, pointing to the burning room. The fire had cut off the draugr, who could either turn back or, in their madness, try to chase them through the burning room and be burned themselves."

"Yeah?" Mercer asked. "And what about us? If we do manage to kill Karliah now, how do we escape?"

"Fire should be out by then," Crixus assumed. "Now come on, let's get moving."

"Alright," Mercer grumbled. "But no more of this showing off. This is serious business."

Crixus stowed the hot metal object safely on his person when he was certain Mercer was not looking. Then they both went on their way into the next room, which was not very far away from the burning room. As they advanced, there was a sudden growling in the next room. A burst of fire was seen and Mercer had to push Crixus out of the way to escape being singed.

"See that?" Mercer shouted. "Those we left behind weren't the only draugr here."

"So what?" Crixus returned. "You can't fight a few draugr?"

But at that moment, another fire-ball came blazing towards them. Crixus ducked and began making his way towards them, when suddenly a draugr leaped out of the darkness towards him. Drawing his sword, he hacked off the creature's limb, but it continued flailing after him.

"Throw me a torch!" Crixus shouted.

A flaming brand came hurling his way, and Crixus swiftly buried it into the draugr. He turned back to Mercer, who was busy fighting off two with a short sword of his own of Dwemer make, when suddenly another fire-ball almost struck Crixus. Turning thither, he saw something hovering above the ground like a dreaded lich out of the old stories. Its face was masked and it was clad in tattered old robes and in its withered hand was a staff from which the fire-balls came. Crixus threw himself towards the lich, swinging his sword in a wide, vertical arc to hack off the arm that held the staff. But even as blade met dried and rotted sinews, severing limb from arm, the limb crumbled into dust and the staff fell onto the floor with a loud clank.

"_Fus...Ro Dah!_" a deep, guttural voice roared.

Crixus had no time to discern what the words were or in what language they were, for immediately he was thrown against the far stone wall as if an invisible, unrelenting force had pushed him against it as if he, Servius Crixus, were nothing more than a leaf in a strong storm-wind. Being thus blown down and humiliated angered him: Mercer would doubtless use this as a reason for why his actions in the last room were foolish. He'd rather be damned than let that happen. Pulling himself off of the wall, which bore some strange yet familiar writing on it, Crixus charged again at the lich-thing, swinging his sword with both hands until he swung and hacked off the head, which burst into ash-like dust. Another thrust and then another and another and the thing was soon reduced to dust at his feet while Mercer was doing his own against the draugr. With one keen throw, Crixus lobbed his sword across the room and pinned one draugr which Mercer was fighting to the wall. With a swing of his Dwemer sword, the last one went down in pieces.

"You see now?" Mercer asked. "Run in like an idiot and this is bound to happen."

"Oh come now," Crixus returned. "We're both still alive, aren't we?"

"That was a foolish thing to do," Mercer stated. "Especially against that dragon priest."

"What?" Crixus asked.

"It's said that dragon priests haunt the deepest rooms of the old Nordic burial mounds," Mercer stated. "Never seen one up close before. I've also heard that they're damn near impossible to kill."

Crixus chuckled. "More Nordic myths. This one fell easily enough. I wonder if all of these monsters and demons in Skyrim are not merely pathetic weaklings that Nords have been too superstitiously afraid of to dare challenge in battle."

"I hope you remember that next time you're fighting a giant," Mercer stated.

"I don't fight giants," Crixus smugly retorted.

"Whatever," Mercer grumbled. "Just shut up and let me think. We're almost there. I'm sure the door is very close, let me look around a moment here."

While Mercer took the torch away to examine the walls, Crixus summoned his candlelight spell: he did not care for Mercer's warning about the torches, not when he could do this. The draugr, however, were the reason he had not done so sooner: he had a feeling that the torch would come in handy. But now that its usefulness was over, he walked over to his sword and pulled it out of the pinned draugr, which fell helplessly onto the floor. For good measure, Crixus stamped upon it several times until he was sure that it could no longer move.

Then, as if some hand greater than his own were guiding him, Crixus slowly made his way back to the wall he had been thrown against by the dragon priest. The words upon the wall were in the same angular script he had seen in Saarthal. And just as in Saarthal, the words, though it had been many months since he last saw them, seemed to be more familiar than that.

"Mercer," he spoke up. "Come have a look at this writing. Can you tell what it means?"

Mercer approached and, immediately, came to a halt when he saw the candlelight spell cupped in Crixus' hand.

"You know magic?" he asked. "That could have been very useful when we came _in_ here!"

"Quit your whining," Crixus returned. "The torch was more useful in the end. Now can you read this or not?"

Mercer took one look at the wall, then shrugged. "What am I, a Tongue? I can't read that. And unless you're hiding more from me than you're capable, I doubt you can either. Now keep your mouth shut and follow orders. You're on pretty fucking thin ice as it is." He turned around and went back to the wall he was examining.

"But what the fuck is a Tongue?" Crixus asked. "I mean, besides the one in your mouth."

"Nord warriors," Mercer turned around, addressing Crixus with an exasperated tone. "Their voices are so powerful, they can knock down gates with a shout. But I'm not learned in those matters: I know how to steal and, thanks to Karliah, how to run the Thieves Guild. So don't ask me stupid questions, I have plenty to do right now as it is."

Mercer went back to the wall and Crixus returned to his wall, though he could not shake the realization that these words, for some reason, seemed familiar. He caught the word 'Nord', something that looked like 'frost-father', whatever that meant, and something that appeared to be a proverb which Crixus knew that no true Nord would ever take to heart. The people he encountered here never seemed to use their minds as weapons over their bodies.

"Over here," he heard Mercer announce from the far end of the room. He seemed to be in better moods, though, from their last altercation.

"What is it?" Crixus asked.

"The door," Mercer said, gesturing up to a wide, circular door made out of stone. Upon closer examination, they saw that the stone door was made from large stone panels centered concentrically around a center of dull brass. Each panel had a carving upon it, whether of an eagle, a serpent or an owl. The center, however, had an impression with three holes. With his fingers he felt into the holes and found that they made the shape of a claw with three fingers.

"Heh," Mercer commented derisively. "One of those infamous Nordic puzzle doors. How quaint. Karliah thinks she's got us stumped here, I take it."

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"Normally," Mercer stated, pointing to the center. "You need a jeweled claw to fit onto the center-piece in order to open the door. It's likely Karliah's already disposed of the claw, thinking that would leave us high and dry. But..." He chuckled as he pulled something green and shiny out of his pocket. "...every door has a weak spot. All you need to know is how to exploit it."

He pressed the golden tip of the greenish thing into one of the holes, then removed it as the door began to slide down into the floor, leaving an opening for them to enter into the final room beyond. After stowing away the device, Mercer drew out his Dwemer sword with his right hand and, left hand still holding the torch, continued into the dark room. Crixus followed on behind, his eyes straining to penetrate the gloom within. Even with a torch, the gloom was such that he could barely see the walls and, without a torch, he could easily become invisible merely by stepping into the right place. This Karliah could be anywhere in the shadows and, if she were a thief, she would be moving as quietly as they would be on a hunt.

Suddenly Crixus groaned in pain as something struck his thigh. He tried to call out Mercer's name, but all that came from his lips was "Masha...mush-oo..." The pain was gone, but so was everything else. Crixus hit the floor hard, unable to move or even to cry out. Something had hit him just now, something that had been poisoned for just such an occasion. Now here was Crixus, lying on the floor, blood coming from his nose where he hit the cold stone, unable to move or cry out. Any thought of invincibility was robbed from his mind as, even now, in the cold unfeeling ether between life and death, the words of Ingun Black-Briar came back to mind.

_If you think about it, we're all made up of parts, like a Dwemer animunculus. They all have different functions, but they all work together to keep us alive. And if only a single part of our bodies fail, life fails._

Only with his eyes could be, unblinkingly, behold what was going on before him. Mercer held his torch in one hand and his sword in the other as he strode over Crixus' body, not even casting a glance behind him at his fallen comrade. He was now wholly devoted to the hunt, eying the shadows like a madman.

"Did you honestly think," he asked the shadows, his voice still calm and steady. "That your arrow would reach me before my blade found your heart?"

Then out of the darkness, a Dunmeri voice drawled: "Give me a reason to try."

Mercer chuckled. "Clever girl, Karliah. Buying Goldenglow Estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery were inspired moves."

"It's just like Gallus taught me," the voice echoed from the shadows. "'Turn your enemy's friends against him to ensure his defeat.' It was the first lesson he taught me...taught _us_, I should say!"

Mercer swept his torch towards the shadows, revealing only the stone wall and floor. He turned around, addressing the shadows once again with a familiar yet unfriendly comment.

"You always were a quick study," he grumbled.

"Not quick enough," the voice angrily drawled from another shadow. "Otherwise Gallus would still be alive."

"Dammit, b*tch, he had _everything!_" Mercer shouted, swinging his torch in the direction of the shadows: once again there was nothing.

"The Guild, his wealth...you," Mercer continued, resentment in his voice. "All that greedy bastard had to do was look the other way and everything would have been just fine."

"Did you forget our Oath, brother Nightingale?" the voice asked. For one brief moment, a shape appeared in the darkness, but as soon as Mercer turned towards it, the shape was gone. "Gallus could not simply ignore what you were doing to us, your shameful methods..."

"Enough!" Mercer shouted. "Come on, you dark elf b*tch. It's time for you to be reunited with Gallus."

The voice laughed a high, mocking laugh, the kind usually only royalty would utter. "I'm not so much of a fool as you think, Mercer. Going toe to toe with you is suicide. But the next time we met, I promise you, it will be _your_ undoing."

There was a shattering sound and then Mercer ran towards it. The shadows were dispersed but he saw nothing. More and more he ran about, waving his torch like a madman, but there simply was nothing else in the room. Angered, he walked back towards Crixus, then knelt down. His face leered down, the lines and angles of his old face sharpened by the torch-light as he glared down at Crixus.

"Interesting," he mused. "She's given me the means to be rid of you, and, like Gallus, this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place."

Crixus tried to move, tried to speak, tried to do something, but he was completely powerless. It angered him greatly that he, Servius Crixus, who had survived the Great War, was being left for dead by this old Breton, truly only half a man.

Mercer grinned. "You know what's better, though?" He pointed at Crixus. "All of this was possible because of you. Goodbye, Crixus. I'll give Brynjolf your best regards."

There was, for a moment, a brief sensation of pain, which died down almost immediately. Yet even in that moment, Crixus could feel himself growing weaker and weaker. He wanted to reach up and pull Mercer Frey down as he rose to his feet and tear that smug grin off his face with his bare hands, but all he could do was watch while he walked away, laughing as he did. His eyes grew heavy, though he had not the strength to keep them open or to cry out. Here, all alone in a Nordic tomb somewhere in northeastern Skyrim, the end of Servius Crixus' journey had come. The Empire could not help him, and the only ones he now had any hope of seeing again would doubtless damn him for his blasphemy.

In his final moments, Crixus found himself wishing that he had someone, anyone, here to help him stay alive for a few moments longer. His thoughts went to Marcurio, Brelyna and Eisa Blackthorn. If only he had not been as callous with them as they believed he had been, maybe one of them could be here to help him. As his thoughts began to blur and his mind fade into the blackness of Oblivion, help and escape were far from his mind. There was no escape now, no help for Servius Crixus. His father was dead, his mother was dead and his brother might as well be dead for all he knew. All he wanted was someone to be here and to hold his hand at the end, to see him through to his final moments. The face of Elisif the Fair passed before his mind, but he knew that she would not acquiesce. She hated him and with good reason. She hated...she...

* * *

**(AN: -sigh- I don't know what to say for this chapter. The story demands it, as well as Crixus' character development. Thank you once again for the reviews, this time there was something specific I could address. My brother, who created Crixus, would prefer that i make him already infallible at the beginning of the story with no arc or development or even a challenge in the world of Skyrim: he would also want the story to be plodding, meandering, with events happening just for the sake of happening that have no real connection to the story because, though he liked _Dragon's Dogma_, he hates the idea of an RPG story where all the events of the world's universe revolve around you [yet for some reason he loves _Morrowind_]. But, since i am not my brother [and made Crixus a character apart, much to his annoyance], and am a big fan of Chekhov's gun, rest assured that the Thalmor attack will be important. VERY important.)  
**

**(Lol, there's another word that has been hijacked by the modern zeitgeist to mean something ridiculous. "Swag" also means stolen treasure [i would have said "swag means booty", but that word has also been hijacked to mean ass - and not the donkey kind - instead of treasure, loot, valuables, etc.].)**


	42. End of the Beginning

**(AN: The title, of course, comes from the _Black Sabbath_ song of the same name from the _13_ album [and don't say that that's not** **"real" _Black Sabbath_. Those pop/power metal Tony Martin albums didn't have Bill Ward on them, nor did _The Mob Rules_ or _Dehumanizer_ and yet those are considered truer "_Black Sabbath_" albums by the fans than everything released with Ozzy]. It's a kind of play on the whole "where the end began" thing from the last chapter.****)**

**(It surprises me that the same people who complain about the main quest in _Skyrim_ love the Thieves Guild, Winterhold and Dark Brotherhood quest-lines: personally, after going through this one for the lore sake, i found Karliah's reasons and motivations behind her actions [shooting you, choosing Snow Veil Sanctum as the show-down, why she let Gallus' remains go unburied for twenty-five years, etc.] to be weak and totally pointless. Not hating on _Skyrim_, because it is still very dear to me, i just felt that some things needed a little bit better explanation.)**

* * *

**End of the Beginning**

His eyes slowly opened as he heard voices raised just downstairs, arguing about something. From their drawl, he guessed that at least one of them was a Dunmer. Immediately he recalled his first memories, sometimes around three years of age, of Valerius and Sedris having a loud argument just downstairs. The whole house seemed to shake with the noise of their voices. For one moment, he wondered if the Divines had cursed him to relive his life again, from the very worst first moment to the final, untimely exit.

Then he began to realize that the words were not those he remembered clearer than his own name. These were new words: words of fear, of hope and wonder. Slowly it became clear that the words spoken were words about _him_, concerning him and some importance he might play.

"You know what that means, don't you?" a man's voice asked.

"I told you before," another voice replied, the same one from Snow Veil Sanctum. "I can say no more."

"But how can you?" asked the first voice. "These are your people we're talking about! They've suffered under these damn humans long enough!" Then the voice fell to a whisper: but it was so quiet in this room that Crixus could just barely hear what was being said.

"There is talk of rebellion in the Grey Quarter," said the man's voice. "Some mer aren't willing to wait for the Empire to depose the plague-alit Ulfric. Athal Sarys talks in the streets and in secret meetings every day. He says that this land is ours already and we should wait for no one and nothing to take what is rightfully ours!"

"And he will do as he sees fit," the voice of Karliah replied in talking tones. "It is no concern of mine what happens."

"It is the concern of _every_ Dunmer what happens to our people," the second one stated angrily. "You betray your people by behaving otherwise."

"Therein lies the difference," Karliah stated. "You and your friends will fight, while I continue to live as I always have. Politics are not my suit."

"But they are mine," the other one replied. "And this is _my_ house. And I have a right to see him."

"No, he's still too weak!" Karliah retorted.

"We deserve to know what the Empire will do!"

"And you will know!" Karliah shouted. "When he wakes. But now he needs his rest!"

There was silence in the room downstairs. Then the stairs began to creak and Crixus looked about the room to see where the nearest door was. He found it to the left and kept his eyes trained upon it. Karliah would be in soon and he would not be caught unawares a second time. At last the door opened and Crixus stirred as though he would rise from his bed, but Karliah did not make a move to attack him. In the light of the candle sitting on the dresser nearby, he saw that she was clad in the same leather garb as Mercer, but it was the eyes that moved him. They were purple, not the blood-red vermillion natural of the Dunmer.

"Easy now," she said. "Don't get up so quickly. How do you feel?"

"Ho-How do I feel?" Crixus asked, his voice slowly coming back. At least he was not slurring like a drunken idiot. "You fucking shot me!"

"It was a last minute decision," Karliah sternly responded. "I had only one arrow and the poison I applied to it wasn't meant to kill: only to keep paralyzed for a good long time. The bastard Mercer kept you in front, so I never got a clear shot at him. As it so happens, I saved your life. So don't give me any of your complaining, I'll not have it."

"Still," Crixus complained. "You should have shot Mercer instead of me. I haven't done anything to you."

"Believe you me, that was my intention," Karliah returned. "It took me years to perfect the poison I put on that arrow. Had to go to Black Marsh to find some of the ingredients even. I wasn't intending to waste it, but I chose you instead."

"Why?" Crixus asked.

"One key ingredient in my potion," Karliah began. "It has properties the alchemists call 'coagulants.' Apparently they stop blood from flowing from open wounds. My plan was to shoot Mercer, keep him paralyzed and then take him back to the Thieves Guild to answer for what he's done. Any wounds he might have inflicted in the battle were not to be fatal. So it proved with you: he tried to kill you, but the potion and a little bit of binding of the wound on my part kept you alive. You know, you should really be more grateful."

Crixus didn't say anything. It was not the first time he had come within a hair's breadth of dying, but it was the first time which he did so and was pulled back by powers not of his own. He owed Karliah his life, yet it seemed odious to him that he should owe anybody his life for any deed, great or small.

"So what has Mercer done that deserves death?" Crixus asked.

"He killed Gallus, not I," Karliah returned.

"What proof do you have?" Crixus asked.

"All I had for twenty-five years was my word," Karliah replied. "When I found Mercer standing over Gallus' dead body in that chamber in Snow Veil Sanctum, he fought me. I barely escaped that fight with my life...and the only shred of proof I could find. When I tried to tell the others in the guild, I found that Mercer told them that _I_ killed Gallus. All of our connections were against me. For the next twenty-five years I was on the run, never sleeping in the same bed. The only proof I could possibly have to insure my innocence..." She held up a beaten book in her hands. "...is this."

"Twenty-five years?" Crixus asked. "You don't look older than thirty."

"Looks can be deceiving, as I'm sure you know yourself," Karliah stated. "You have the scent of the daedra about you. Those who deal with the princes of Oblivion should look for strange things in their lives." She grinned. "But enough about gods and spirits. Those things hold little interest to me, only revenge. That's where this book comes in." She holds it up.

"What about it?" Crixus asked.

"I didn't choose Snow Veil Sanctum for irony only," she stated. "There had to be something there that would give me a clue to deciphering this journal."

"Deciphering it?"

"Gallus wrote this in some language I don't recognize," she replied.

"Can it be translated?"

Karliah mused quietly for a while, then placed the book upon the table with one blue-gray finger pressed against her lips pensively.

"There might be someone I can trust," she replied. "Gallus had only one contact outside of the Nightingales, someone in Winterhold: a Bosmer by the name of Enthir. He might know something about this strange language."

"That word," Crixus spoke up. "Nightingale. I heard you use it before, in the tomb. What does it mean?"

"That is a long story," Karliah replied. "One that I don't feel compelled to bring up at this point. You must go to Winterhold at once and see Enthir about this journal. I will find you when the time is right."

"Wait, find me?" Crixus asked. "You're not coming with me?"

"There are still things to do here," she returned. "During my fight with Mercer, I only had time to take Gallus' journal before I had to flee for my life. Ever since then, I never properly buried Gallus. His bones are still in there, the only thing left of him." Crixus noted that she became suddenly sullen. She did not cry, nor did her voice break: she only became grim and sullen. Yet he could feel the twinge of pain in her voice. Gallus must have meant something dear to her.

"Right," Crixus mused. "So, where am I and how do I get out of here?"

"You're in the New Gnisis Corner-club in the Grey Quarter in Windhelm," she replied. "And as for getting out, well, I can arrange that. You're only on the second floor and I've arranged for a cart to be parked outside all day. Once out, you can be well on your way north of here to Winterhold."

"Why can't I just go out the front door?" Crixus asked.

"I don't know if you heard down there," Karliah stated, thumbing her right hand back towards the door. "But the proprietor was jumping down my throat to hear something about you. It seems he's been storing up weapons for the Imperial Legion in this club, offering information to them against the Stormcloaks."

"A good and noble deed, that," Crixus replied.

"Another one, eh?" she asked.

"I'm a loyal servant of the Empire first," Crixus stated. "But that doesn't mean I won't help you."

"Then get on out that window," Karliah replied, pointing towards the window to Crixus' right. "Your gear is still on you. Remember to take this, though." She thrust the book into Crixus' hands.

"So I can move then?" Crixus asked. Karliah nodded. "Fine, I guess I'll be off then. Until we meet again."

"Wait a moment," Karliah interjected.

"What now?"

"Let me look upon your face," she requested. Rolling his eyes, Crixus remained still as the violet-eyed Dunmer examined his features.

"Who was your father?" she asked at last.

"Valerius Crixus," he replied.

"Your mother?"

"Claudia Crixus," he added. "She was of the Maro family of Anvil before she married my father. What's this about, then?"

"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head gently. "Only...you have an heir of royalty."

"Uh, okay," Crixus awkwardly replied. "Thank you, I suppose. My father was a simple guardsman in the Anvil city guard and my mother I did not know. But I'm pretty sure I have no kings in my family tree. Can I go now?"

Karliah nodded, then walked over to the door and opened it. From there, Crixus leaped out of the window and into the cart full of straw just below the window. With hood thrown over his face, he made his way out of Windhelm. Though he had neither entered or exited Windhelm through the main gate in his last adventure here, he was able to find his way out sure enough. He walked around until the stench of cramped living quarters disappeared and there were no Dunmer. From there he found the gate, crossed the bridge that spanned the White River and stowed away at the stables on the other side. There he stole a horse and was off westward before the stable-hand knew what had happened.

It seemed that Snow Veil Sanctum was not the end for Servius Crixus. For the gods whom he had openly mocked were still watching over him.

* * *

After following the White River on its southern bank, Crixus crossed at Anga's Mill, where he had executed one for the Dark Brotherhood. From here, the main northern road led up into the high mountains which were nearly impassable in winter but, in summer, could only be expected to have a few feet of snow. This would be the path which he would take to return to Winterhold. Despite his aversion to the snow and cold, Crixus had good reasons to venture to Winterhold. He had to fulfill this quest for Karliah: if for nothing else, to make Mercer Frey pay for betraying him. That the Thieves Guild did not steal from each other or kill each other put them apart from the common rabble in Crixus' mind. But what Mercer did was a betrayal of his trust, _his_ trust, and for that, the damn dirty Breton deserved to die.

But there was another reason for going to Winterhold besides his association with the Guild and his wounded pride. At Snow Veil Sanctum, he had come closer to death than ever before in his life. Every other incident, even in the Great War, he had been spared from death by his own power, his own hand had saved him. This was the first time where he owed someone else his life: he did not like it. But that was not the only other reason why he was going to Winterhold, to buy his way out of Karliah's debt. In that moment he was the most vulnerable he had ever been: that he had been so in Skyrim made him even angrier, but not as angry as he would have been had it been a Nord that brought him to this deplorable state and not a Breton. But even that was not why he was returning to Winterhold.

Scipio Marcurio and Brelyna Maryon were the only people in Skyrim which he considered friends, and the last time he had been among them he had alienated them. As much as he liked to say that it was _their_ fault for being overly sensitive or simply weak fools, he had played the part of the aggressor. He wanted to be back into their good graces. He would never be vulnerable again and that's what they were there for: to carry his goods and defend him. If it meant kissing ass to get back into their favor, it would have to be something Crixus would simply have to do.

Two days of traveling in the snow finally brought Crixus to his destination. Before making his way into the College of Winterhold, he went first to the Frozen Hearth inn. He desperately needed a drink and some warm food. Furthermore, it was quite likely that Marcurio and Brelyna could be found here, for, as he knew, this was a favored hang-out for mages of the College. After ordering himself room and a strong drink, he overheard two familiar voices arguing at the door. Turning thither, he saw the two very people in mind walking over to a table at the far corner of the common room of the inn, arguing about something. Judging the time to be right to make his return, he slowly walked towards them as they took their seat at the far table.

"Well well," Crixus chuckled. "I'm gone and you two are keeping up my slack by b*tching each other out in my absence. That's good: I'm glad my influence is paying off."

"You're back," Marcurio noted. "What brings you here?"

"Several things," Crixus replied. "But one of them involves you two. I regret to inform you that my actions towards both of you have been unwarranted and misdirected. It is not the way of a Colovian or of a citizen of the Empire to behave so callously."

"Ancestors' blood!" Brelyna exclaimed jestingly. "Is that your idea of an apology?"

"Don't be too hard on him," Marcurio cut in, equally jovial. "Think of how difficult this must be for him to admit."

"This isn't a joke!" Crixus snapped. "I...I'm...well, what I did was wrong and..."

"Think nothing of it," Marcurio replied. "We just thought you deserved a little taste of your own medicine, is all."

"Seems like you two were giving my medicine to each other just now," Crixus stated.

"We're not arguing," Brelyna interjected. "We have a task to do from the College and Marcurio is being an insecure little human about it."

"I'm not insecure!" Marcurio replied. "And this whole issue is all wrong. This is not how we do things."

"Maybe not in the College of Whispers," Brelyna commented. "But that has always been the way among my people."

"Wait, what's going on?" Crixus asked. "Is it about the excavations in Saarthal?"

"Why should this be about that?" Brelyna asked, suddenly sounding very defensive.

"I've noticed," Crixus stated. "That you get very defensive whenever Saarthal is brought up. Especially since last month. I think that means there's probably something more to what you found under Saarthal than you want to admit."

"But we found nothing under Saarthal," parroted Brelyna.

"You keep saying that," Crixus noted, holding up one finger authoritatively. "But why so much secrecy over something where nothing was found?"

"I'm not being secretive!" Brelyna continued. "There was nothing under Saarthal."

"Then what is this about?"

"Well, to be honest," Marcurio interjected. "There was _something_ or other that we did find there."

"What was it?" Crixus asked, his interest whetted. "Did you find gold? Magical artifacts?"

Marcurio chuckled. "Something anyone who knows anything about magical archaeology will tell you is that nobody goes into ruins specifically to look for gold."

Crixus cocked one eyebrow. "I'm sure it doesn't hurt if you find any, though."

"Of course," Marcurio smirked. "But it's the other things you look for, things which most people would consider junk: broken pots, fragments of wood, that sort of thing. We can learn a lot more about the past from a shard of a chamber pot over a chest full of gold."

"So what did you find, then?" Crixus chuckled. "Some existential shite-bucket that changed the way we understand how Atmorans shite?"

It was now Brelyna who chuckled. "Something like that."

Marcurio, however, seemed very upset and buried his face in his hands in frustration.

"So what's the problem, then?" Crixus exclaimed. "A few pieces of broken pottery and an ancient Atmoran shite-bucket don't seem to be the stuff to start wars over."

"It's a little more complicated than that, alright?" Marcurio asked.

"What's so complicated about it?" Brelyna asked. "All you have to do is do what you're told. What could be simpler than that?"

"I agree," Crixus added.

"Shut up," Marcurio retorted. "You're not helping things."

"Don't listen to him, Crixus," Brelyna interjected. "This is what's right."

"This is not only wrong, it's unethical!" Marcurio stated.

"Since when has a mercenary cared about what's ethical or not?"

"Would somebody just stop beating around the bush and explain things to me?" Crixus asked, his voice raising louder than he had intended. All at once he noticed that the eyes of the others in the inn were on him. Without explanation, he threw his hood back over his head, turned back to the others and muttered.

"Go on, then."

Marcurio sighed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers before turning to Crixus.

"What if you were told by...the Imperial governor, General Tullius, to do something you knew was wrong?"

Crixus chuckled. "General Tullius wouldn't order me to do anything that was treasonous or contrary to Imperial law."

"So if he told you to burn down a village," Marcurio asked. "You would do it?"

"If the General tells me to do something," Crixus replied. "By the gods, it's for a good reason." He turned to Marcurio, a suspicious look in his eyes. "You know, what you're saying could be construed as treason."

"Thankfully we're in a Stormcloak-loyal hold," Marcurio stated. "So I can speak my mind." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he attempted once again to speak his mind. "What if you were told to do something by your superiors that went against every law and tradition you upheld and believe in?"

"I believe in the Empire, her laws and the order she brings," Crixus stated. "And I know for certain that the Emperor and his representatives, including General Tullius, would not order me to do anything that would bring harm to the Empire or violate her laws."

"But what if they did?" Marcurio asked.

"They wouldn't," Crixus insisted. "They just wouldn't."

"You're avoiding my question," Marcurio stated.

"Because it's a stupid question," Crixus replied. "The Empire would never order me to do anything that did not agree with the laws of the Empire."

"But what if they _did_ ask you to do something," Brelyna interrupted. "That was not exactly in agreement with their laws? But by doing so, you would avoid a greater calamity? You could save generations by your actions..."

"What are you saying?" Crixus asked.

"The Arch-Mage," Marcurio began. "He wants us to...to..."

"To destroy what we found in Saarthal," Brelyna stated.

"So?" Crixus asked. "What's so problematic about that?"

"Exactly," Brelyna stated. "It's just some old weapons, fragments of wood, broken pottery. Junk, like you said, Crixus."

"It's more than junk," Marcurio stated. "I've seen exactly what Arch-Mage Aren wants us to destroy. Bones, human bones, showing signs of violent death: skulls broken in from behind, spines shattered, lots of damage. There are Nordic weapons, but there are also many moon-stone weapons: elvish. Master Tolfdir said the weapons must have belonged to the Falmer. The designs were different than modern elvish weapons and they were white instead of golden. The wood fragments also show signs of burning. That's only a little bit of what we're being told to destroy."

"So?" Crixus asked.

"Have you read Heseph Chirirnis' report on Saarthal?" Marcurio asked.

"Actually I have," Crixus noted. "You'd be surprised how much free time you have when you're prefect in Mournhold. Your point being?"

"Arch-Mage Aren is in agreement with Chirirnis' findings," Brelyna stated. "That the so-called 'Night of Tears' was not as big a tragedy as local tradition holds it to be."

"Well, that's no big secret," Crixus responded. "Of course the Nords would inflate the story of the first strikes in their war against the elves. Anything to justify their bigotry."

"This isn't right, though!" Marcurio stated. "We should not be destroying evidence that's inconvenient to our own personal prejudices."

"It's how the Tribunal survived in Morrowind," Brelyna stated. "The stories that contradicted the official legend were branded heresy and its adherents thrown out into the Ashlands. You humans might think it wrong, but it united Morrowind for centuries. No one even dared to invade us: fortresses and standing armies were meaningless when we had living, breathing gods that could openly defy the lords of Oblivion."

"So?"

"Don't you see?" Brelyna asked. "The world is changing. The only people who matter are those who know how to read. The Arch-Mage knows as well as I do that if we change the way the people of the Empire, Cyrodiil and Skyrim, view the history between elves and men, it could undo centuries of hatred and wars. We could finally be on our way to being truly united."

"With elves leading us?" Marcurio asked.

"Is there any other option?"

"I didn't know you were so racist, Marcurio," Crixus stated.

"Crixus, this isn't about race and you know it," Marcurio interjected. "It's about preserving the truth. If we were to believe conventional wisdom of Morrowind, Argonians and Khajiit were too dumb to do anything themselves: according to the teachings of House Dres, they deserved to be enslaved to keep them from destroying themselves."

"You can't judge a people on its worst representatives," Crixus commented without irony or humor.

"But my point," Marcurio continued. "Is that we have to know _all_ the truth, not just the things that are convenient to conventional wisdom!"

"Exactly," Crixus grinned victoriously. "And conventional Nord wisdom, such as it is." He added with a mocking chuckle. "Deserves to be challenged by a view that is beneficial for the good of all. So where are these junk piles?"

"I can't believe you're supportive of this!" Marcurio groaned.

"That's the Imperial way, my friend," Crixus replied with a smug grin. "Open and accepting to new cultures and new ideas."

"Except Nords, of course," Marcurio added.

"Because Nords are barbarians who destroy new cultures and new ideas," Crixus replied. "They oppose everything the Empire stands for: it was a mistake to let them into the Empire in the first place."

"You do know the Empire was _founded_ by a Nord, right?"

"A Breton," Crixus interjected angrily. "And not the _true_ Empire, not Reman's Empire or Alessia's Empire. Those were founded by Imperials and the Septim Empire was built off knowledge and legalisms stolen from the Reman Empire."

"I need a moment to myself," Marcurio groaned, then left the table and made his way to the bar. Once he was gone, Brelyna turned to Crixus.

"I'm glad someone is wise here," she smiled. "Arch-Mage Aren couldn't get enough help from the students and, Jarl Korir being a Stormcloak and distrustful of magicka, he would not spare any of his soldiers to this endeavor. Besides, Arch-Mage Aren didn't become Arch-Mage for nothing. He has good reasons for what he wants."

"And this is for the best reasons," Crixus added. "So just tell me what needs doing and..." He then noticed a Bosmer clad in wizard's robes enter the Frozen Hearth.

"Brelyna," he gestured towards the wood elf. "Who is that?"

"That's Master Enthir," she returned. "Not a teacher at the College, but a purveyor of books and soul gems and other things magical students might require."

"Good," Crixus grinned. "I need to have a word with him. Just a moment and I'll help you with what you need."

As Crixus left the table, someone came walking into the common room from the front door: a young Colovian man in warm traveling gear with shaven head. Crixus did not see the face, for he was busy examining the Bosmer now seated at the bar. Marcurio was on the other side and seemed to give Crixus no notice as he sat down next to the wood elf.

"Enthir, I presume?" he asked.

"Perhaps," the Bosmer replied. Pretending not to notice Crixus, Enthir continued eating from his bowl of long pork stew. "What do you need?"

"I hear you're the mer to talk to about...rare translations," Crixus suggested, sliding the book across the bar in front of Enthir. Pausing for a moment, he picked up the book and thumbed through it.

"I'm sorry, friend, but I cannot help you," Enthir replied, closing the book and shuffling it back to Crixus.

"What do you mean?" Crixus asked.

"Please, let me finish," Enthir interjected. "I cannot help you because I cannot read this language."

"You don't, huh?" Crixus asked.

"It's the ancient language of the Falmer," Enthir retorted. "The Snow Elves of Skyrim. They're practically myth outside of Skyrim, and the locals here know too well than to ask a Falmer how to translate some scribblings in a book. If you want this translated, go east to Markarth. Seek out the Altmer court-mage Calcelmo. He is an expert on the Falmer language and knows as much about the Dwemer as Yagrum Bagarn, if he survived the Red Mountain."

"Prefect!"

Crixus' blood froze in his veins. No one in Skyrim called him prefect. Furthermore, as Marcurio had stated before, he was in rebel territory. No Stormcloak rebel, to his knowledge, would take on the title of an Imperial Legion prefect. He did not trust all of the eyes and ears in this inn and knew what would happen if those who possessed untrustworthy ears also had loose tongues that would wag before rebel ears.

"Prefect, at last I've f..."

Crixus turned around and threw his hand around the mouth of the one he found. It was then that he recognized the face of the shaven adventurer who had walked into the Frozen Hearth.

"Petruvius," Crixus whispered. "What are you doing here? You're away from your post."

The young Petruvius muttered beneath Crixus' gloved hand. Looking around, Crixus dragged the young man back to the table with Brelyna and sat him down there while Marcurio, noticing the commotion, followed inquisitively from behind. Brelyna was surprised to see Crixus dragging a young man to her table, a young man with weather-beaten clothes, blood-stained and bruised.

"Ancestors, what's this?" Brelyna asked.

"No!" Petruvius gasped. "They've found me!"

"It's alright, she's a friend," Crixus assured the young man.

"Who is this man?" Brelyna asked.

"This is Silenius Petruvius," Crixus introduced. "He _was_ a guard at the Imperial prefect in Mournhold: key word being 'was.' He won't be for long if he doesn't tell me why he's deserted his post!"

"Pref..."

"And keep your voice down!" Crixus hushed. "It's not safe to speak here."

"It's Mournhold, sir," Petruvius gasped. "It's fallen."

At this all three of those around the young man halted. His words struck them like a great stone hewn from the Throat of the World and cast down into the plains of Whiterun.

"What did you say?" Crixus asked.

"It was the twenty-fifth of First Seed," Petruvius began. "I've been searching for you for months, but Pectis didn't know where you were."

"I told him I was in Cheydinhal," Crixus stated.

"You weren't there when I came looking for you," Petruvius gasped.

"It's a long story," Crixus replied. "A very long story."

"Thank the Divines I finally found you," Petruvius continued. "They came out of nowhere. It started as a riot in the Godsreach, Argonians against Dunmer. Then a Dunmer party charged the prefecture. Within moments, the men were surrendering to the locals: they..."

"Go on, soldier," Crixus nodded.

"They cut them to bloody shreds," wept Petruvius. "All of the garrison is dead. Pectis refused to surrender. He practically had to beat me out of the city just to find you to give you word. The last thing I saw, Pectis was being dragged out into the streets and...beaten to death."

Crixus suddenly looked gray and grim. The years for a moment seemed to weigh down upon him heavier than before. He did not look Marcurio or Brelyna in the eye, only down at his hands. He then turned back to Petruvius, his eyes blazing with anger.

"What of my lady, huh?" Crixus asked. "Where is she?"

"I saw your manor in flames," Petruvius replied. "There's...little hope that she survived."

"Wait a moment, lady?" Marcurio interjected. "You're married?"

"Widowed, it looks like," Crixus grimly replied.

"So what about all that talk about fucking as many women as you wanted?" Marcurio asked.

"Don't be getting prudish on me!" Crixus snapped. "You're of the same tastes, as I recall."

"Polygamy is perfectly acceptable in Dunmer society," Brelyna stated, though her voice was twinged with sadness. "As are unbound marriages, where multiple partners may be brought into the marriage bed." She then turned to Crixus and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry for your loss," she muttered. "May the New Tribunal guide your lady into the arms of Azura."

Crixus did not say anything for a while. He seemed empty and forlorn and did not even reach for his drink. Both Marcurio and Brelyna exchanged glances between each other, but said nothing.

"I have to go," Crixus replied at last, his voice as empty as his expression. "Petruvius, help Brelyna however she wishes. Marcurio..." He turned to him and shook his head. "No hard feelings."

"Forgive me," Marcurio added. "I shouldn't have said that."

Crixus did not say anything, but there was a moment where their eyes, brown and blue, met and they understood: what Marcurio had said about Crixus' licentious lifestyle was something Crixus usually would have said about anyone else. He turned away and walked up to the bar, placing a few gold coins on the table before opening the door and disappearing out into the cold.

* * *

**(AN: Another layer of mystery added to Crixus' character. And yes, my brother is of the belief that Talos is not a Nord. Not just "lol, there's no way he could have been Atmoran", but that, despite the fact that there are Nords outside of Skyrim, even in oh-so-precious _Morrowind_ and _Oblivion_, and that his birth-name was Hjalti, obviously a Nordic name, that because Talos was born in High Rock, he's not a Nord. By that reason, a Dunmer born in Skyrim is not a true Dunmer [hello Dunmer racism from Kirkbride's opus _Morrowind_!])**

**(As the game does recycle quite a few voice actors, the good thing about making a fan-fic is that you can envision your characters [or even NPCs] have unique voices. Because of that, i intentionally left Enthir's voice nondescript. In-game, he's voiced by the same voice actor as Mercer, but i can't think of any suitable voice besides typical wood elf voice to substitute. So i leave his voice up to the imagination of you readers.)**


End file.
